


Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen

by oyhumbug



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternative First Meeting, Baking, F/M, Flash Fic, Fluff, Holidays, Humor, Romance, alternative history, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 13:48:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8492170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oyhumbug/pseuds/oyhumbug
Summary: When Oliver goes to Felicity Smoak for help in making the most of a reality baking competition his mother and the QC PR team cooked up to bolster his reputation, he's pleasantly surprised to learn that his employee was unwittingly entered into the competition by her meddling mother.





	1. FF#51: Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen

**FF#51: Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen  
An Olicity Flash Fic Story**

**FF#51: Undercover Couple**

Oliver Queen had never been considered an honorable man – _before or after_. Though he was decidedly changed since returning to Starling City, one of those changes was a fierce determination to retain some semblance of his privacy. Oliver wouldn't go so far as to call himself a good man, but he was at least better. He was relatively honest – as much as he could be... both with himself and with others. His life was no longer one of debauchery and hedonism. In fact, Oliver rarely drank, and, when he did, it was more for appearances sake than out of a desire to get drunk or even so much as unwind. He went to work, he spent time with his family and a few, select friends, and he attempted to be the man his father had begged him to become seconds before ending his own life so that Oliver could have even the chance to survive.

However, it was because of these very same changes that his mother wanted the world to recognize Oliver as the upstanding catch she deemed him to be. Now a vice president of some made up department, Oliver was the heir to Queen Consolidated that the future success of his family's company depended upon. It wasn't enough that he worked hard and cared about his employees. While Oliver, his mother and stepfather, and even the board of QC knew that his current position in the company was only a necessary stepping stone in order to gain the public's trust, he would soon be the CEO of Queen Consolidated whether he had the business skills and savvy or not. And he didn't. But, if Oliver had learned anything since starting to take an active role in his parents' legacy, it was that degrees and an actual knowledge of business didn't really matter when it came to QC's bottom line. Instead, investors were really putting their money into Oliver the man and not Oliver the CEO. He might have personally been there to make sure that no one ever lost another job in Starling City because of a factory again closing due to his family's greed, but the rest of the world – his mother included... and actually foremost – saw Oliver as nothing more than a symbol.

And, a hard-working and ethical man now or not, that symbol was lacking.

How could anyone recognize all of his changes if he refused to broadcast them to the public? How could anyone believe that, eventually, he'd settle down with the perfect girl and start his own perfect family in order to continue the perfect Queen bloodline, Starling City's own version of a royal family (the distinction deserved or not) if Oliver maintained his current relationship status of hermit? And how could Queen Consolidated drum up excitement and good press for its fledgling executive if there were no actual, real, business accomplishments to promote? It wasn't like, while lost at sea for five years, Oliver had really been attending graduate school or running anything besides for his life.

So, that's how he found himself here. In this mess. And desperate for a way to both make his mother and the QC PR team happy while somehow managing to not lose his tentative grasp upon his sanity and embarrass everyone, himself most of all, in the process.

Where the idea had come from, Oliver didn't even want to know, but his mom had gotten it in her head that the Queen family should host a local, reality competition – a date with Oliver being the grand (and only) prize. Eligible women would enter for a chance to bake for a date with him. From an initial pool of applicants, nine women were selected. Once a week, they would submit an entry to meet a holiday baking challenge, and, each week, Oliver would select the least successful baker, and she would be out of the competition. All he would judge on was the taste of the baked treats, and all he would know about the applicants were their names.

It was a blind taste and a blind date challenge all rolled into one, and it was the most ridiculous (and sexist) thing Oliver had perhaps ever participated in. (Given his past, that said a lot, too.) However, based on the buzz the story and competition had already received, no one else in Starling City – in the state even – saw it that way. While Oliver knew that his mom had carefully screened the applicants as only Moira Queen could – after all, neither Oliver nor the company could go through an eight week publicity stunt only to end up with a winner that would be bad for either his or QC's image, and while absolutely no one involved in the charade actually wanted Oliver to meet his future wife in such a gauche way, it was cute, and fit some antiquated fairytale fantasy, and the public was under its PR spell.

For some reason, it didn't matter that, in basing his selections off a women's ability to bake, Oliver was essentially claiming a woman's place was in the home and behind a stove. It didn't matter that, in not knowing anything about the eventual winner, Oliver was basically dismissing a woman's intelligence, and accomplishments, and ambition to be more than just a wife and mother, a homemaker. And, despite his own objections on principle, Oliver had gone right along with the idea – not because he liked it, and not because he actually wanted to go on the date, but because, if it would make his mom, and Thea, and even Walter happy, then it was a very small price to pay.

Even if the idea of putting himself out there... even if only for just one dinner... and opening himself up to such public scrutiny was enough to give Oliver nightmares.

Literally.

Which was why Oliver was currently attempting for casual and actually coming across as anything but as he made his way through the IT floor of Queen Consolidated and back towards the far corner where the office of one Felicity Smoak was located, a woman with the reputation of being both discrete and remarkable with a computer.

"Excuse me, what?" Just as Oliver was about to knock on Miss Smoak's cubicle door, the sharp, obviously livid words made him pause. In fact, he took a hasty step back in an attempt to escape her wrath. At first, Oliver believed the irate words to be directed at him. Why even approaching her office would incite such displeasure, he had no idea, but his paranoia was not new and, quite frankly, not even the worst of his issues post rescue. However, after a few uneasy seconds, Miss Smoak spoke again, using that whispered tone that's supposed to be quiet but, in its heat, is actually louder than a normal speaking voice, and his concerns were allayed. "Care to run that by me again, mother." The request was actually a demand.

Oliver knew that he should step back, that he should turn around, and retreat, and give Felicity Smoak her privacy, and then return after a reasonable amount of time had passed in order for her to settle her personal business and calm back down. However, he wasn't sure, if he left, if he'd find the nerve to approach her again. What he wanted to ask of her was... unorthodox (to the say the least), not to mention illegal. Plus, there was just something tickling the back of his mind – some instinct he had been able to hone during his five years away, surviving relatively alone and lost to the world. That instinct told him that not only did he want to hear what Felicity Smoak said next but that he needed to know what had the IT tech so angry.

"First of all, why you thought you had the right to interfere with my social life..." There was a short pause during which Oliver assumed Felicity's mother had interrupted her. Before he had the chance to guess what the elder Ms. Smoak said, Felicity was sputtering, "I date!" It was both defensive and insulted. "Besides, even if I joined a nunnery..." There was another pause during which Oliver tried to picture the spunky, colorful, pretty blonde wearing a wimple. (He might not want to go on a date with a stranger and risk being asked nosey questions about his time away, but he also wasn't dead, and, in trying to figure out how he could avoid an awkward and potentially dangerous situation on the prize date, Oliver might have seen a picture of Felicity Smoak on the company directory... and liked what he had seen.) The incongruous image of her as an abbess made him snicker... which nearly gave his lurking presence away. "I know jews can't be nuns, mom! That wasn't my point. My point is that there is absolutely no level of shut-in status that could possibly justify you entering me into this insipid reality, dating, _baking_ contest."

Wait, what?!

In his shock over realizing Felicity was one of the contestants he had been planning to approach her about researching, Oliver's footing stumbled. He had trained with an ex-special forces agent for more than a year on the island, been taught martial arts and archery by not one but two experts, and had maintained his grueling physical regiment even after being rescued, yet one slip of a woman was able to make him forget all of his teachings and, with one sentence, nearly fall for her. He meant _over._ With one sentence, Felicity nearly made him fall _over_. Shaking his head at the melodramatic direction his thoughts had taken, Oliver focused back in on what Miss Smoak was saying over the phone.

"Even if I managed to not get arrested for attempted murder by cookie – and, by the way, poison is such a cliché weapon of choice for a woman, mom, he's my frakking boss!" In that moment, Oliver really wished Felicity Smoak wasn't as skilled of a computer technician as she was, because then she might actually need both hands for the task she was working on, so she'd be forced to put her phone on speaker. Then the thought struck him that maybe he should promote her so that her work might actually succeed in being a challenge for her... or, at least, challeng _ing_.

Miss Smoak speaking again pulled Oliver away from his musings. "I don't care if he sits up there in his executive suite all day, every day picking his nose, watching porn, and playing tic-tac-toe by himself and _still_ managing to lose to that damn cat every round. If his name is on the side of the building, then he's my boss, mom!" Oliver _really_ hoped that's not how Felicity actually saw him, that she didn't think he was an imbecilic pervert who did nothing and was only a vice-president because he was the heir to the company. While his position might have been created for him, that didn't mean that he didn't work hard, take his job seriously, and actually do his best for both the company and the people who worked for it. For him.

"I don't even understand how I got through the screenings. My name alone should have raised a red flag, so unless you... You used my middle name and dad's last name, didn't you?" Whatever Felicity's mom said in response must have confirmed the blonde's suspicions, because she groaned in frustration. A few seconds later, Oliver could hear her bustling around her office, obviously fidgeting and moving things to and fro, back and forth on her desk in an attempt to distract herself from her agitation. How he somehow just _knew_ this about her without ever laying eyes on her in person, Oliver wasn't sure. But that absolute certainty did help cement the plan starting to take shape in his mind.

"Look, mom, I need to go. While I still can't believe you did this, and while I'm still furious with you, at least we both know it won't go any further than the first round. I can't cook. I can't even fake cook." Oliver had no idea what fake cook meant, but that didn't dampen the grin that seemed to be permanently lifting the corners of his usually somber mouth. "So, I'll burn something, submit it, hope that I don't kill Oliver Queen in the process, and then be the first woman eliminated. No one besides you and me will ever need to be the wiser."

Silently backing away, once Oliver was clear of the short hallway which led to Felicity Smoak's office, he turned around and proceeded to retrace his steps out of the IT department. He moved efficiently, trying to exude a sense of purpose but also a confidence that he was the boss – the boss who had come down to the twelfth floor with a goal, a goal which had been accomplished. No one looked twice at him – their faces all buried behind their monitors, so his projected attitude seemed to do the trick.

By the time he boarded the executive elevator which would take him back to the 39th floor, he knew exactly what he was going to do. He was going to choke down whatever baked goods _Megan_ submitted for eight rounds, and he was going to pretend to like them. While he might not know what her father's last name was... since her conversation with her mother implied that she did not use her dad's surname, he knew that Felicity's middle name was Megan thanks to her employee profile on the company website. Even if there coincidentally happened to be more than one Megan in the pool of nine contestants, Oliver would know Felicity's desserts by their burnt and inedible natures.

Only after he made sure that she won – someone who he already trusted thanks to the phone call he had overheard – would he reveal the truth to her and hope that she could forgive him for both eavesdropping on her private conversation and for the deception that one-way encounter had inspired. Because, now, despite his mother and the PR team's intentions, and despite his own reluctance to participate in the charade of a competition, Oliver didn't just want to go on the date; he wanted to go on that date and many more with Miss Smoak. While he wasn't sure what it was exactly which drew him to Felicity, there was just something about her – something he had eight weeks to figure out and hope it was enough to convince her to give him a chance in return.


	2. Week One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Week One Baking Challenge: Hot Holiday Drink Inspired Desserts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was quite fun to read through everyone's ideas on how Felicity could screw up her baked goods week in and week out (and torture Oliver), but I'm going to use one of the two actual challenges from the Holiday Baking Championships as my prompts/inspirations. (This is totally my fault, because I wasn't explicit enough when talking about this last week.) I hope this doesn't damped anyone's interest in the story. However, it does mean that, if you want a clue, all you need to do is watch the show. ;-) (Unfortunately, drones DO NOT bring you samples to try as you judge from home.) Thanks for all the wonderful comments, everyone, and for the Tumblr follows! 
> 
> ~Charlynn~

**Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen  
Week One  
  
**

**Week One Baking Challenge: Hot Holiday Drink Inspired Desserts**

The thing with cooking was that she just didn't get it.  
  
Well, _obviously_.   
  
But what Felicity meant was that she didn't get why she didn't get it.  
  
Cooking wasn't rocket science – rocket science, she understood that; hell, she had wanted to be an astronaut as a child, but it wasn't necessarily art either. While it could be _made_ into art, one didn't need to be a chef to _not_ run the risk of a life sentence in the California Department of Corrections. Untalented men and women managed to feed themselves, their families, on a daily basis and not wind up on the front page of their local papers as a sad murder-suicide story. Yet, she, Felicity Smoak – Mensa level genius, MIT graduate, and general all-around tech badass – could not even manage to boil water without setting off her apartment's smoke detectors.   
  
It was a bad sign when she personally knew the names of every one of her local fire-fighters. (What made this even worse was that the whole hot fireman trope? Yeah... it wasn't exactly a thing in real life.)   
  
Rationally, Felicity knew that she _should_ be able to cook. To bake. To saute. To grill. To broil. She could name all the tools (not that she owned them... or planned on buying them for just a single week of this ridiculous competition), and she knew all of the terms, too. (Memorization had never been her downfall... in anything.) Her math skills were exceptional, so she could divide or multiply a recipe into its minutest or grandest scale possible, and the principles of proper cooking times, leavening, and flavor combinations were easy as _pi_. (Notice the spelling.) What Felicity could not do was put all of this knowledge together to create even a single, edible dish.   
  
Granted, Donna Smoak was no role model when it came to cooking. While not as hopeless as Felicity herself, Donna had little interest and even less time for home cooked meals during Felicity's childhood, so there was no learning by her mother's side as a little girl. But that was fine. Donna Smoak also wasn't one to build computers or set up networks, though Felicity could now do such things blindfolded and with one hand tied behind her back... not in a kinky way or anything. Just... hindered. Anyway, she was quick on her feet and could read something and instantly comprehend it to the point of mastering the skill the very first time she attempted it.  
  
Everything _except_ cooking.  
  
Like her mom, Felicity didn't really have an interest in cooking, though it would be nice if she wasn't so reliant upon takeout and pre-packaged meals. She was a successful, self-sufficient woman who would like to be able to feed herself without the pitying looks of the pimply faced delivery boys constantly mocking her. But she was also practical, so Felicity knew that, instead of trying to cook and not succeeding, it just made more sense to suffer the judgement of pubescent teenagers rather than wasting her money, time, or sanity. Felicity had long since accepted and made peace with the fact that cooking was her one failing in life...  
  
… that was until her mother decided it was a good idea to enter her into a blind baking/blind dating competition... _for her frakking boss_.  
  
Even just the thought of Donna Smoak's latest stunt made Felicity's jaw lock, her teeth grind together. She was so... _pissed!_ at her mother that it made concentrating difficult. All week long – ever since Felicity had discovered the latest example of her mom's meddling, Felicity's work had been suffering. It wasn't that she was worried about _not_ winning the date with Oliver Queen. In fact, Felicity wanted to lose. But she didn't _like_ to lose, and she didn't like others being aware of any of her weaknesses. It was going to be embarrassing to submit whatever slop she managed to dump together, and it would be even more embarrassing if anyone _ever_ learned that Megan Kuttler was actually Felicity Smoak – both because of her lack of cooking prowess _and_ because then they'd think that she was desperate enough to enter a dating competition. While her relationship skills might be just one step above her kitchen skills, Felicity didn't need a man to be or _to be_ happy, so desperate she was not... no matter what her mother might believe.   
  
These worries, however, did nothing but make Felicity bite her nails and fall behind on her projects. Because she couldn't concentrate 100% on her work like normal, she was running the risk of missing her deadlines, and, because Felicity was running the risk of missing her deadlines, she was staying later and later at work every night. Even when she did manage to make it home, at night in bed, she just tossed and turned, further exacerbating the issue. The fact that she was even allowing the nonsense that was this reality competition to interfere with her life compounded her frustration, her anger. It was a vicious, destructive cycle. On top of everything else, for the past few hours, there had been a tinny, phone alarm going off throughout the _entire_ IT department, and no one was doing a damn thing about it.  
  
“For the love of all things holy, would someone _please_ shut that thing off!” Normally, Felicity had a strict no-violence policy when it came to tech (and pets, especially puppies), but, that afternoon, she was seriously reconsidering her stance.  
  
“Umm... Miss Smoak,” a tentative, hesitant, downright frightened voice squeaked from her doorway. Felicity glanced up from her computer only to find one of the interns looking anywhere but directly at her. “Everyone else already checked their phones. We think....” The college student gulped in her nervousness. Granted, Felicity's mood had been all but nuclear for the past week, but she hadn't realized it'd been _that_ noticeable to her coworkers... whom she was now realizing were all a bunch of cowards if they were sending in a teenager to do their dirty work for them. “Well, the only logical conclusion is that the alarm must be coming from _your_ phone.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
The intern didn't even stick around long enough to hear Felicity's shocked acknowledgment, let alone an apology... which she would have offered had their been an audience for one. Instead, she spun around on her desk chair and reached for the junk drawer where she kept her purse and other personal belongings. Rifling through the bag's contents until she located the offending (and now almost dead) mobile, Felicity tried to recall why she had set an alarm in the first place. If it was for a meeting or an appointment, she would've just put the notice on her outlook calendar. In fact, Felicity rarely used her phone notifications, because she didn't really need the reminders. If it was worth remembering, her brain remembered it. End of story.  
  
Waking up her cell's screen, she saw an entire, scrollable list of notes she had sent to herself. Starting hours earlier, there were messages that ranged from encouraging to downright insulting, all of them insisting that Felicity leave work early and take a few hours to throw together... something for the baking competition. Only... in her abstract distraction _over_ and _about_ the whole _Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen_ disaster, she had done the one thing her reminders were meant to prevent: forget that she actually had to bake something.   
  
And, now, her submission was due in less than half an hour.  
  
“Sweet mother of monkey milk,” Felicity gasped, standing up so fast that she caught her right shin on her open junk drawer, the heel of her left pump on one of her chair legs, and she only managed to catch herself from knocking over her cubicle and then face-planting into the not-been-scrubbed-in-far-too-long berber carpet by jamming her hip into a filing cabinet and using its sturdiness to hold her not-so-sturdy-anything up. Needing a moment to recuperate... and a few deep breaths so that she didn't burst into tears (part from pain, part from mortification, and part from defeat), Felicity collapsed back down into her desk chair.   
  
Between inhalations, “stupid elite...,” and exhalations, Felicity cursed, “...and their belief... that the world... and the work day... revolves around them!” Seriously! If using baking as a measuring stick of a woman's dating worthiness wasn't chauvinistic enough, the Queens thinking it was a good idea to make the baking submissions due _on their frakking doorstep_ at 5:00 on a Wednesday afternoon was basically the family announcing to the world that truly desirable women shouldn't even need to work while they were single, that their schedules should revolve around finding a husband rather than meetings, and deadlines, and paychecks. It was yet another example of how out-of-touch this entire reality competition was, and, yet, there Felicity was, tying herself up in knots and making herself sick with worry, because of the insipid thing anyway.  
  
“Alright, you can do this, Smoak,” she tried to psych herself up. It didn't work, but talking to herself did relieve some of her anxiety, so she continued to ramble out loud. (Okay, so she always talked to herself, and she always rambled, but work with her! Felicity was having a frakking meltdown here!) “You like food. You like sweets. And you're inventive.” (With tech.)   
  
As she ticked off her _strengths_ , Felicity haphazardly started removing items from her junk drawer. After a quick examination, she'd either set them aside as a possible ingredient or toss them over her shoulder to be cleaned up later. “And there's the theme. Don't forget about the bloody theme.” Which was hot holiday drinks – normally something that would galvanize Felicity and inspire her, because nobody loved festive coffee, hot apple cider, toddies, mulled wine, or hot cocoa more than she did, but Felicity was lucky if she could make hot chocolate in the microwave... let alone turn it into a baked good.  
  
Unfortunately, an inordinate amount of red pens, several pairs of tights, a back-up pair of flats, an assortment of dental hygiene products, far too many bottles of finger nail polish, some clothespins (Hey, they made convenient chip bag closures!), a hair brush that was missing several teeth, practically an entire aisle's worth of tampons and panty-liners, a rainbow assortment of hair-ties, a man's tie (She, sadly had no idea how that got in there.), a tube of deodorant, a miniature menorah, and two slinkies (Yes, two – do not ask her!), all Felicity managed to scrounge up that was even edible was a jar of cookie butter and a half-eaten sandwich which she had shoved in the drawer a few days prior when her boss made an unannounced (and totally unwelcome) stop by her office to discuss _her future_ _with the company_.   
  
Her love of fast food and habit of eating absolutely everything on her plate struck again!  
  
With one last exasperated exclamation, “you've gotta be kidding me,” Felicity swept the measly offerings into her arms and took off towards the break room at a run.  
  
Okay, so maybe it wasn't a _run per-say._ She didn't run. She jogged...ish. She shuffled. Sometimes, Felicity honestly did skip, because it was an underrated mode of transportation _and_ exercise, but whatever spastic combination of movements she happened to piece together in her efforts to get to the 12th floor kitchenette, they were done so in a hurry. At least, there she'd find the coffee. Not only did coffee always make things better, but she _needed_ it. And, if anything would be able to lift her spirits, it would be her mug collection which, intended by Felicity or not, had somehow managed to migrate most of its way to QC.   
  
And that's when inspiration struck.  
  
She'd make a mug cake!  
  
Alright, so maybe it wouldn't be a mug _cake_ exactly. But it'd be in a mug! And it'd be sweet, because she'd add the cookie butter. And it'd be hot, because she'd microwave that... biscotti. And, while she didn't have access to any flour, bread was made from flour, there was such a thing as bread pudding, and beggars couldn't be choosers. Plus, she'd even sacrifice her _favorite_ mug to help make up for its contents. Maybe Oliver Queen would be so charmed by her panda cup which woke up when hot and went to sleep when cold, which had panda ears for handles, that he'd forget to even taste the coffee-cookie butter bread pudding (hopefully) like substance inside the mug.  
  
It was a long shot, and she was down to less than fifteen minutes to get the _concoction_ thrown together and then down on the entry table before the Queens waltzed in for the tasting ceremony, but this was her pride, her privacy, and her professional career on the line.   
  
It was do-and-hope-Oliver-Queen-doesn't-die-time.

 

* * *

 

Something was rotten in the state of Starling, and it wasn't just Felicity's dessert submission.  
  
After just skating her mug-of-death onto the Michelin five star looking table in Queen Consolidated's ground floor located and largest media room (usually used for press conferences, now used for the death of the 19th amendment), Felicity had hightailed it back to her office. Though her work day was officially over, and there was no way she'd actually get anything productive done that evening, the entire reality competition was like a train wreck she couldn't look away from... only, instead of actually being in danger of wrecking, the train really contained an evil intent upon killing everyone on board, and the train would neither stop nor let her jump off even in flight. (And, yes, she meant flight. Watch some Doctor Who already!) So, instead of going home – like she should have, Felicity sat glued to her computer screen, watching the nightmare that was Oliver Queen's (kind of creepy) personal life unfound before her very eyes.  
  
One of the local news channels... the one with that annoyingly peppy Bethany Snow... was _live broadcasting_ the tasting for all of Starling to watch. While Felicity hated being one of the sheep willingly being led to the Queen family slaughter of women's rights, she just had to know, too. She wouldn't be able to sleep well again until she was sure that she was officially done in the competition. And so she waited. And she actually gave her viewership numbers to the infuriating reality dating segment. And she was appalled at what she saw.  
  
So, apparently, presentation was a thing.  
  
 _Thanks a lot, Donna!_  
  
Just like with her wanting to lose but not liking it, Felicity didn't appreciate being showed up by women who actually _wanted_ to impress Oliver Queen and his family. Maybe she couldn't bake, but she could decorate. She knew colors, and she knew textures, and she knew how to arrange something visually to stimulate and catch the human eye. So, while she certainly wasn't ashamed of her panda bear mug, it didn't exactly jump off the screen and impress.   
  
However, this should have been just one more reason why _Megan Kuttler_ was the first booted from the competition.   
  
But she wasn't.  
  
And Oliver Queen actually ate her mug-of-death – not just a bite, or two, or even three, but the entire, nauseating, poisoning thing! He ate it, he managed to smile afterwards without gagging or throwing it back up, and he passed her along to the second round. If it had been _anything_ else, Felicity just would have assumed that there was a cook out there in Starling City who was actually worse than she was, but she saw those submissions – in high definition no less, and she witnessed the Queen family's reactions for herself after Oliver eliminated some woman named Rachel who submitted hot apple cider cupcakes with brown sugar and cinnamon frosting. _With edible decorations. And garnishes._ Those cupcakes made Felicity's mouth water _through a screen_!   
  
Hence, the rottenness.  
  
Before that evening, Felicity Smoak never would have believed that there could be something that could make her actually want to stay in the reality baking/dating competition, but, for once in her life, she had been wrong. (Okay, so there was that whole goth/Cooper/hactivist... phase in college, but she liked to think of that as _growing pains_ rather than a string of bad decisions.) Anyway, Felicity would have to admit her mistake, because, now, she _did_ want to stay. The fact that Oliver Queen seemed determined to eliminate anybody _but_ Megan Kuttler and the fact that Felicity was still in the competition made both Oliver and _Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen_ a mystery.  
  
And she _hated_ mysteries.   
  
They needed to be solved. 

 


	3. Week Two

**Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen  
Week Two**

 

**Week Two Baking Challenge: Thanksgiving Sandwich Cookies**

He had to think up something.   
  
As much as Oliver  _ did not  _ want to go on a date with a complete stranger, and as much as Oliver  _ wanted _ to go on a date with Felicity Smoak, he wasn’t sure he could survive eight weeks of Felicity’s idea of ‘baking.’    
  
She had warned him. Or, more accurately, she had yelled at her mother about entering her into a baking competition when she couldn’t in fact cook, and, in effect, Oliver had been prepared to push  _ Megan  _ forward in the competition despite her submissions  _ perhaps _ not quite presenting with the same standard of success as the other contestants’.    
  
However, nothing could have prepared Oliver for what was inside that panda mug.    
  
While the coffee cup itself had given Oliver a little further glimpse into who Felicity was as a person, the cup’s contents had literally pained him, the thick as tar… and just about as tasty… coffee giving him heartburn, not to mention the nausea from… everything else. To the eye, it had most closely resembled dirty dish water after the suds had all been used, and there were floating chunks of bloated, water soaked food swimming around the cloudy, murky liquid. Unfortunately,  _ Megan’s  _ submission hadn’t smelled much better either. But Oliver had been determined, and he had stomached far dicier food while living on Lian Yu… or so he had wrongfully assumed. The only thing that got Oliver through the entire mug of… hell? (he had no idea what he had foolishly swallowed the day before)… was picturing all of the ways the competition could end disastrously for him if he didn’t make sure  _ Megan _ won.    
  
With that said, however, Oliver was determined to find a different way, a better way, to get both himself and  _ Megan  _ through the next seven weeks.    
  
“You’re up to something.”   
  
Having not heard his little sister come into the room, Oliver startled. After years of surviving rather than actually living, he prided himself on his awareness of his surroundings at all times, but Speedy had certainly come by her nickname honestly, and Oliver had been vulnerable, lost in his own hectic thoughts. So, despite knowing better, he just… reacted. He jumped in his seat, he slammed the laptop shut, and he barked at Thea, “don’t you knock?”   
  
“Knock?,” Thea mocked him before strutting to a couch and falling backwards over one of the arms, landing in a pose of carefree sophistication. If their mother saw her treating the furniture that way…. “Ollie, this is dad’s study, not your bathroom.”   
  
“Oh. Well….”   
  
“Besides,” Thea continued to tease him, “it’s not like I tried to sneak up on you.” She waved a hand in his general direction. “You were just lost in your own little world over there. Porn watch much, Ollie?”   
  
“Actually, Speedy,” Tommy chimed in… and when exactly did Tommy either get to the house or enter the room and conversation? “When it comes to porn, your brother prefers participating over just observing.” Chuckling, Tommy flopped casually down into a side chair, crossing his legs. “I remember this one time…. There were these sisters. Twins! In fact, they claimed their profession was ‘twinning,’ and boy did they ever make a strong case for it in that video.” Despite the fact that Thea was listening raptly to everything Tommy had to say - her expression a hybrid somewhere between repulsed and dying to know, Oliver was not impressed by his best friend’s antics, and he certainly did not appreciate being confronted by the fact that his baby sister not only knew what pornography was but also felt comfortable enough with the topic to tease Oliver about his sex life… or, apparently, what she believed (correctly) to be a lack thereof. However, before Oliver could offer Tommy any censure… or a fact check, the other man was already smugly backtracking. “No, wait. That was me.”   
  
Thea groaned, collapsing back against the sofa cushions dramatically. “Of course it was, Merlyn. After all,” and, here, Thea effected a lofty tone, “if I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient.”   
  
“You see, all I heard there was ‘great.’”   
  
“You mean that’s the only word you understood,” Thea bantered back, earning herself a grin of pride and respect from Oliver’s best friend.    
  
Mercifully, Tommy allowed the topic to drop. However, unmercifully, he did not broach a safer topic when he questioned, “so, what exactly did I walk in on… besides two West Coast siblings having a very West Virginia conversation.”   
  
“I was just questioning my dear brother on what exactly he thinks he’s up to with this baking competition.”   
  
“Ooh!,” Tommy cooed enthusiastically, conspiratorially. To further emphasize his eagerness, Oliver’s best friend rested his elbows against the near arm of his chair and situated his chin into the cupped palms of his hands, his fingers brushing up against both sides of his jaw and cheeks. Fluttering his eyelashes, Tommy urged, “yes. That. Spill the scoop, Ollie. Inquiring minds want to know.”   
  
Standing up from what had once been his dad’s desk, Oliver tucked his laptop under his left arm and against his side. “I don’t know what the two of you are talking about. There’s no scoop. I’m not ‘up to’ anything.”   
  
“The laddie doth protest too much, methinks,” Tommy snarked.   
  
“Give it a rest, Merlyn,” Thea fired back. “Ollie doesn’t do Shakespeare.”   
  
“No one  _ does  _ Shakespeare, Speedy; he’s dead.”   
  
“Are you claiming to be above necrophilism?”   
  
Sighing in exasperation, Oliver started to head towards the door. All it took was thirty seconds, and then his baby sister and best friend were once more back to talking about sex. What was with the two of them? If Oliver wasn’t so desperate to just get away, he might have been more worried.    
  
Just before Oliver managed to escape and duck out into the hallway, Tommy realized he was slipping away and asked, “but, no. Seriously, Ollie. What gives? We saw that mug and what was inside of it.”   
  
“Yeah. It looked like the panda ate its own poop,” Thea offered.   
  
“Actually, it looked like the water after Pilar - you remember her, right, Ollie? She had a stripper booty with a rack like wow.” Despite the fact that he could hear Thea singing softly under her breath which made Oliver realize Tommy had just quoted some song he didn’t recognize or care to know, Oliver still threw a glare over his shoulder at his best friend. “Anyway, whatever was in that cup, it looked like the water after my dad’s housekeeper hand-washed my gym socks.”   
  
“Ha! Nice try. You mean your tighty-whities, Merlyn.”   
  
“And how would you know what kind of underwear I prefer, Thea?”   
  
“Panty-lines don’t lie.   
  
Tommy sighed wistfully. “I think that’ll be the name of my autobiography someday.” Shaking his head in frustration and annoyance, Oliver resumed walking out of the room. “Hey, where do you think you’re going, buddy?”   
  
“I have things I need to do,” was the only explanation Oliver offered his sister and best friend.   
  
“Fine. Go. Run away,” Thea playfully ordered. “While you enjoy your porn, Tommy and I will figure out what you’re up to without you.”   
  
While the two of them together had quickly proven to be a dangerous combination, Oliver decided to risk Speedy’s threat, because, despite their suspicions, there was no way Tommy or Thea would be able to learn of his plan, especially not  _ Felicity Smoak _ ’s role in it. And, even if he was worried about their mistrust, he had his own figuring out to do.   
  
Following the familiar paths and passageways of his youth, Oliver wove his steps through his family’s home towards the one place in the house where he knew he’d be able to find help. Even as a child, whenever Oliver had been upset, or scared, or confused, he never sought out his parents, Thea, or Tommy; instead, he had always gone to Raisa, and Raisa had never once let him down. Oliver had complete faith that, even now as an adult, she would be the same allie she had always been for him as a kid.    
  
Using his right shoulder to push open the swinging kitchen door, Oliver was already talking before fully entering the large, warm room. “Raisa, you don’t by chance know where Mr…? Digg, you’re here.” The bodyguard Oliver’s mother had insisted upon after his return merely lifted his brows in recognition before calmly taking a silent sip from the healthy-sized coffee cup that was made to look small in the former soldier’s sure hands. “Good.” Swiveling his head towards the island where Raisa was cutting up vegetables, Oliver explained both his sudden presence there in the kitchen and his need for an audience with both the housekeeper and the bodyguard. “I need your help.”   
  
“With what, man,” Diggle easily asked.    
  
But Oliver wasn’t ready to just… spell it out for them yet. “It has to deal with the baking competition.”   
  
John immediately protested, “I’m not eating Megan’s entries for you, Oliver.”   
  
He exhaled loudly, feeling antagonized all over again. “That’s not… I don’t… Look, I’ve already gotten my fill of jokes from Tommy and Thea. Could you just… despite how ridiculous this whole competition is, I’m being serious right now, alright?”   
  
“Of course, Mr. Oliver,” Raisa spoke evenly, soothing him. While Diggle didn’t verbally recognize Oliver’s request, he did put his mug down and meet Oliver’s eyes with his own steady, serious gaze.   
  
“If it was just up to me, I wouldn’t be participating in  _ Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen _ . But it’s not just me, and it hasn’t been easy for anybody, particularly my family, since I’ve been home, so, when my mom first presented the idea of the competition to me, it seemed like a small sacrifice to make for her. But then reality set in.”   
  
“And you realized that, at the end of these eight weeks, you’re going to have to go on a date with a stranger,” Digg filled in the rest for him.   
  
“Exactly.”   
  
“While I understand your predicament, Mr. Oliver, and while I never thought this contest was a good idea - not that I would ever say anything, mind you, I can’t see how we could be of help now.”   
  
Taking a deep, bracing breath, Oliver revealed, “I need your help in… replacing someone’s baked goods, in switching them out with others.”   
  
Shaking his head in amusement and chuckling, Diggle said, “you’ve got yourself a ringer.”   
  
Raisa inquired, “ a ringer?”   
  
“A fake, a phony,” John supplied. “Someone who is a plant in the competition so that Oliver has someone safe he can choose as the winner.”   
  
As Raisa was nodding in understanding, Oliver corrected his bodyguard. “Actually, she’s not a plant. She just…. Look, it’s a long story, and, yes, while I do think she’s a safe winner, that’s not why I want - why I  _ need  _ \- your help.”   
  
“Oh, I get it,” Digg acknowledged, smirked. “This is about a girl.”   
  
Even Raisa joined in on the ‘isn’t it fun to pile on Oliver’ routine. “It’s always about a girl, Mr. Diggle.”   
  
He ignored them both. “Felicity… she didn’t enter the competition willingly. Her mother entered her, using her middle name, and she can’t cook. At all.”   
  
“Ah. Panda mug,” Diggle realized.    
  
Oliver continued without admitting his guard was right. “When I started to get nervous about this whole thing, I went to her for help, wanting her to research the contestants beforehand so that I might pick someone who wouldn’t sell me out to the highest tabloid bidder. However, I realized that it wouldn’t be necessary, because Felicity isn’t like that.”   
  
“You got all that from one meeting,” John asked. Despite avoiding his gaze, Oliver must have flinched, or flushed, or perhaps the avoidance itself was a giveaway, because the other man discerned, “you never actually talked to her, did you, and this girl has no idea what you’re up to, does she?”   
  
At that point, the answers to Diggle’s questions seemed obvious enough, so Oliver simply moved on with the conversation. “She actually works at QC, so it’s a… delicate situation, and Felicity intends to throw the contest on purpose.”   
  
“But you can’t let her do that, and you can’t allow it to appear as obvious as it was this week that you’re pushing her through no matter what she submits,” Raisa concluded.    
  
“So, who is going to stand-in bake for this girl,” Digg questioned.   
  
Despite the fact that Oliver was asking his bodyguard for a favor, Diggle’s tone was starting to wear thin. “She’s not just  _ some girl _ . I told you: her name is Felicity.”   
  
“Look, man, I meant no disrespect,” John told him calmly, holding up his hands in defense. “And I get it. You like her; you like this Felicity.”   
  
Oliver was certainly not ready to confront what Diggle was implicating, let alone discuss it. “I think that she is a smart, independent woman who won’t judge me for my… past. I think she could be a friend. Besides, despite what the public has been led to believe, no one thinks anything will actually come from this silly PR charade.”   
  
“You know,” Digg mentioned thoughtfully, “there was once  _ a girl _ for me, too - back when I was still in the military. I said the same things about her: that she was intelligent, fierce, a damn good soldier. Because we came from the same place professionally, we understood each other. When we started to talk and the other guys started to harass me about her, I blew them off and said that she was just a friend. Six months later, I married that girl.”   
  
“And what happened to this wife of yours, Mr. Diggle,” Raisa wanted to know.   
  
“After we returned to civilian life, Lyla and I… we divorced.” Oliver found himself recoiling, and John must have caught the tell, because he looked him directly in the eye when he said, “it had nothing to do with the girl, Oliver, and everything to do with everything else.”   
  
After several beats of silence, Raisa - thank god for compassionate, sweet Raisa - spoke up, diverting all of their attentions back to the initial matter at hand: Oliver’s request. “So, you will bake the desserts, and you want Mr. Diggle and I to switch them for your Felicity’s?   
  
Thankfully, Digg seemed to ignore the way Raisa referred to Felicity as Oliver’s and, instead, focused right in on, “you can bake?”   
  
“Mr. Oliver is a man of many talents, Mr. Diggle.”   
  
“Apparently,” Digg chuckled.    
  
He rolled his eyes at both of them. “I’d do it myself, but I’m not supposed to go down to the first floor until 5:00. If someone spotted me beforehand, I’d raise suspicions. If anyone witnessed me messing with  _ Megan _ ’s submissions, they might become suspicious of her.  And if I got caught….”   
  
“Say no more, Oliver. Raisa and I, we’ve got your back.”   
  
“Yes, we will help you,” his family’s housekeeper agreed. “But I’m not sure how you will be able to bake these sweets here without your mother and sister finding out.”   
  
“And that brings us to the second thing I wanted to ask for your help with: I’m moving out, and I’d like your support.”   
  
“I think that’s the best idea you’ve had since you got back, man,” Diggle told him earnestly. While they weren’t ones to talk about personal matters with each other, Digg, due to his background and his job description, was an observant man. He was also a kind, compassionate man as well. So, he had covertly dropped hints during their time together that perhaps the Queen estate wasn’t the healthiest place for Oliver given that he was still adjusting after his five years away. And, though Oliver didn’t ask for Digg’s advice, he respected it, because he knew it came from an honest, genuine place. Plus, ever since the night Oliver woke up with his hands around his mom’s throat, he knew that moving out was the best course of action for everyone involved. It was difficult, though, leaving so soon after just returning home, and he had procrastinated. He still wasn’t sure how he was going to tell his family, but the situation with  _ Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen _ had forced his hand.    
  
“Your mother will not like this, Mr. Oliver.”   
  
“I know,” he breathed out, suddenly unbelievably tired. “But I’m hoping that, when everything is all said and done, she’ll at least respect my decision and me all the more for it.”   
  
“Speaking of respect, you know you should read Felicity in on this plan of yours, don’t you?”   
  
“I’m going to tell her everything,” Oliver addressed John’s concerns. When the guard tilted his head in doubt, Oliver added, “ _ after  _ the competition.”   
  
While he could see that neither of his co-conspirators approved of this caveat, Oliver felt like it was his safest option, because what in the hell would he do if, after being told of his idea, Felicity refused to go along with it? 

 

* * *

 

The ironic thing was that Oliver didn’t even particularly like sweets.   
  
Even _before_ , even as a child, he’d always preferred savory snacks, salty treats: popcorn, cheese curls, salt and vinegar chips - all foods Moira Queen would not approve of and made all the more delectable because of that distinction. As he grew older, indulgence became about sex and booze, drugs, but certainly not food. And, now - _after_ , his body simply couldn’t handle the richness that was baked goods.   
  
So, at least he could consider his own likes and dislikes when concocting one of the many desserts he had to taste on a weekly basis. Yet, he also had to keep in mind that everyone else had to believe that it was _Megan_ who made the desserts Oliver created, so they couldn’t be too complicated or too unique either.   
  
For _Megan_ ’s Thanksgiving sandwich cookie, Oliver went with very traditional pumpkin, substituting no-sugar-added applesauce for the butter and omitting some of the other liquids from the recipe, because he used honey to supplement some of the sugar. For the filling, Oliver made one of cream cheese and, again, skimped on the sugar. He wanted the natural tartness of the cream cheese to shine through and help alleviate some of the other sweetness that was unavoidable in the recipe. As for the presentation, Oliver kept it simple again. He chose a deep burgundy plate and dusted powdered sugar over and around various cookie cutters in the shapes of leaves and acorns. (Raisa had helped him _thoroughly_ stock his new kitchen, the lone part of the apartment that actually felt lived in and complete.)  
  
The one thing that he did regret was that he didn’t get to see what Felicity came up with. No matter how much he was depending upon her to win the date, and no matter how much the little he knew about her intrigued him, the bottom line was that they had yet to even share a conversation. The small glimpse into who Felicity _Megan_ Smoak was that Oliver was able to get from her week one dessert was more than anything else he had to go on (besides his eavesdropping). It told him that she was resourceful, liked pandas, and obviously believed in the power of coffee. When he asked Digg for _Megan’s_ actual entry, Oliver had been disappointed to learn that his guard had immediately trashed it. He could have gone dumpster-diving, Oliver supposed, but the point of asking for Diggle and Raisa’s help was to avoid suspicion, not arouse it. In the end, his pumpkin sandwich cookies were the only baked goods he actually didn’t immediately feel the need to brush his teeth after consuming, and, more importantly, _Megan_ advanced on to the third round.   
  
Standing alone in his empty, loft apartment that Wednesday night, Oliver closed his eyes in relief. Another week down, another week closer to escaping _Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen_ with his peace of mind and privacy intact. So, then, why did he feel like, somewhere along the line, he had made a massive miscalculation with his plan?


	4. Week Three

**Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen  
Week Three**

**Week Three Baking Challenge: Thanksgiving Trifles**

Felicity was going to digitally decimate Tommy Merlyn.  
  
Normally (at least privately in her own mind), his shenanigans would be worthy of a full-on threat of murder, but after barely escaping offing Oliver Queen with her mug-o-death, Felicity was trying to reign in her premeditated, homicidal (thought) tendencies… at least until after she was free and clear of the assault on women’s rights that was _Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen_. However, Merlyn Junior was really testing the limits of her restraint.  
  
At first, Felicity had given him the benefit of the doubt. When Tommy inserted himself into the middle of the baking/dating reality circus as the self-proclaimed Chris Harrison of Starling City, reciting bios for the remaining women like they were nothing more than _The Price is Right_ Showcase-Showdown packages, Felicity had initially wondered if _Megan’s_ information had been provided by her mom as some kind of cover. Yet, she should have known better; she should have given Donna Smoak more credit, because, despite their differences, despite the fact that, even now, they didn’t understand one another, Felicity’s mother had never tried to change anything about her… well, besides her marital status. But that was just predictable; that was just Donna Smoak being a good, Jewish mother. The travesty that was _Megan Kuttler’s_ personal narrative came straight from the warped and sexist mind of that no-good, dirty rotten scoundrel, Tommy Merlyn.  
  
By way of _Megan_ , Tommy had all but characterized her as a walking, (barely) talking blow-up doll. He stripped her of her summa cum laude double graduate degree from MIT and, instead, replaced it with a certificate in massage therapy. Rather than a bright and rising female star in a predominately male driven field, Tommy made _Megan_ the queen of happy endings. Gone were her legitimate skills and what Felicity liked to think were unique and interesting hobbies, and, in their place, Tommy had cited _Megan’s_ love of shopping and spending time with her beloved sisters from her sorority days ( _Pi_ _Beta_ _Phi_ _4ever_!)... before she _left school fashionably early to pursue… other opportunities_. While Felicity’s mom might have been skimpy on the details and technical jargon in the online application she filled out on behalf of her daughter, she didn’t reduce Felicity down to a cliche either. Tommy Merlyn all but spelled out the idea that social climber _Megan_ was in the competition to land herself a wealthy husband and, if that wasn’t in the cards, then at least a few good headlines and bedpost-notch bragging rights.  
  
As for what motivated Tommy, he had made it pretty damn obvious that he was suspicious of _Megan_. Whether that skepticism was towards _Megan_ herself or towards Oliver’s baffling insistence that _Megan_ remain in the competition, Felicity wasn’t sure, and, frankly, she didn’t particularly care. Whatever his reasons, she did not appreciate Tommy’s attempts to _smoke_ her out. The stereotyping was insulting to not just her but to all women, and Tommy couldn’t have been more conspicuous if he had tried. Perhaps the other women weren’t setting the world on fire, but they also weren’t reduced down to nothing more than a vapid triviality. On top of that, she had to sit there at her desk, listening to Tommy flirt with every _one_ with a pulse and every _thing_ capable of providing him with a little bit of friction, and she couldn’t do or say anything to defend herself, her honor, her intellect, or her sex.   
  
Disgusted, Felicity scooted her desk chair slightly further away from her monitor… just in case the skeeviness was contagious through time, space, and a computer screen. Arms folded protectively over her chest, she exclaimed, “you’re practically announcing to the world that you’re willing, able, ready, and looking forward to being the cast-off contestants’ sloppy seconds. Not that Oliver’s actually tasting their _cookies_ , but, still, Merlyn, have a little pride. And self control.”  
  
As Tommy prattled on, and Oliver started to taste the week’s baked goods, Felicity found her gaze drifting to the side of the shot to where Moira Queen was standing all poised and put together. “And you,” she wondered out loud. “Why would you ever agree to this… this dumpster fire that is Tommy Merlyn, reality dating show host?”  
  
Love, hate, or fear her, Moira Queen was a formidably smart and successful woman. While Felicity didn’t necessarily want to be Moira Queen, she admired her. Well, _aspects_ of her. And she envied her a little bit, too - her dignity of manner, the strength she showed after her husband’s death and seemingly also losing her son, and the respect she commanded both professionally and personally. No one would ever derail her career simply because she was a woman. No man would ever objectify her in the office simply because she was young, and pretty, and blonde. And no one would ever intentionally humiliate her on (albeit local) television in order to gain a personal advantage at someone else’s expense. And yet, despite her own untouchable position in life, Moira Queen allowed her son’s best friend to make a mockery of _her_ PR campaign to rehabilitate _her_ son’s reputation and to embarrass one of _her_ competition’s contestants.   
  
Yes, Moira had stood by for years and watched her son treat his life - and everyone else’s around him - like one big joke, but at least Oliver had the somewhat flimsy yet accepted excuse of youthful indiscretion, but Tommy Merlyn’s behavior that evening was not charming or endearing. If Oliver had said and done the things Tommy had, Felicity had no doubt his mother would be furious. Hell, she probably would have stepped in and stopped him, but Tommy was given carte blanche. It couldn’t even be explained by Moira hoping, in comparison to his best friend, Oliver would look even more responsible, even more a changed man, because Tommy’s antics, in Felicity’s eyes (and she had to hope in others’) had been so bad that they tainted everyone else by association.   
  
However, as much as Felicity was now determined to exact her cyber revenge on Merlyn Junior and as grateful as she was that she’d never have to make nice with Moira Queen (despite working for the Queen matriarch’s company, Felicity was nothing more than a peon, and their paths would never, ever, ever cross), these were mere sweat bees in her bonnet; the paper wasp was ‘The Great Baked Goods Switcheroo Caper of 2012.’ Hell, Felicity no longer even cared why Oliver Queen pushed _Megan_ through after that first week’s mug-cake-bread-pudding disaster when another contestant was sent packing after submitting a perfectly perfect batch of cupcakes.   
  
No, what she really wanted to know was who, how, and why her sandwich cookies had been replaced with someone else’s, especially because her submission had not been deadly. _Last_ _week_.  
  
Now, Mary Berry’s baking crown had most certainly still been secure, but Felicity felt like her week two entry had been… serviceable. Not wanting to reinvent the wheel by any means, she had elected to make a basic yet classic, nut-free chocolate chip cookie, sticking two of them together with a healthy sized red, orange, or yellow food-colored spoonful of Cool Whip. Sure, maybe her cookies had been cut from a large, rather flat looking blob rather than individually created and baked, because ‘nobody got time for that!’ And, yes, her dyed Cool Whip, by the time Felicity got her entry onto the judging table, had started to melt, so her sandwich cookies were falling off their sticks… and then falling onto the floor. (She had turned them into lollipops after finding this ceramic turkey with holes for Tootsie Pops instead of feathers on Ebay.) But, still, she had tasted one, and she didn’t even get a stomach ache afterwards!   
  
Only… when it came time to watch the live tasting alone, up in her office, and from behind her scared-to-lose-and-scared-to-advance fingers, Felicity’s melting chocolate chip turkey feather sandwich cookies were nowhere to be seen, and, in their place, were pumpkin and cream cheese ‘made by _Megan_ \- psych!, not!’ pretenders. And those pretenders? They _were_ a threat to the Mary Berry baking crown… or so they looked like they were through Felicity’s computer screen.   
  
Obviously, with those pumpkin and cream cheese sandwich cookies to her name, _Megan_ advanced onto week three, and, now, Felicity was eagerly and nervously waiting to see if the same swap fate would befall her Thanksgiving trifle. Once, she could excuse as a fluke or a mistake. After all, while the Queens were practically American royalty and QC an international conglomerate, _Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen_ was only just a local, weekly news special segment, its production values far below the national television standards. It would not take a Machiavellian scheme to accomplish such a switch when a ‘whoopsie, gopher bad!’ made more sense and could just as easily explain a _solitary_ event. However, if it happened a second time….  
  
Then Felicity Smoak would smell a rat instead of an apple pie trifle… which is what she attempted to make for that evening’s challenge.  
  
As Oliver Queen made his way down the dessert table line, she heard him announce ginger-this and pumpkin-that, and pecan-this and spice-that, so-on and so-forth, and she contemplated her own submission. While Felicity relied on information and knowledge for just about everything in her life, cooking was the one area in which research did her absolutely no help. Recipes just seemed to complicate matters that Oliver Queen would not survive if complicated.   
  
Traditionally, a trifle was a cold and layered dessert of cake and fruit covered with cream, jelly, and custard. In Felicity’s kitchen, a trifle, where this insipid competition was concerned, was three edible layers - one of which was baked - that did not contain anything close to resembling custard, because who wants to eat something that rhymes with… _flustered_? So, she bought a Pillsbury pie crust, she plopped it onto a pizza sheet, and then she proceeded to burn it, not considering that the baking directions would take into account the crust being pressed into a pie pan and then filled with something. So, _then,_ she bought a second Pillsbury pie crust, plopped it onto that same now slightly damaged and slightly charred pizza sheet, and watched it bake to a golden-ish brown with her nose pressed up against the glass window of her oven. (She had refused to buy a third Pillsbury pie crust, so due diligence it was.) Afterwards and still hot from the oven, Felicity double fisted two knives and stabbed the pie crust into submission… or into chunks that she could layer into a pumpkin shaped bowl (also purloined from Ebay). After spooning on some canned apple pie filling, she sprayed a ring of Ready Whip on top. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.   
  
“Because what says let’s celebrate the genocide of American Indians better than apple pie,” Felicity mumbled to herself, lifting her right hand towards her mouth and biting down on her thumb nail.   
  
There was only one trifle left, and _Megan’s_ entry had yet to be tasted.   
  
The camera panned, Oliver stepped to his left, and then Felicity saw it.   
  
It was red.  
  
“Conned by cranberries!,” she exclaimed. In the excitement of the discovery that her dessert had been switched out yet again, Felicity pushed her chair back and stood up all in one, fluid-as-a-Smoak-woman-could-move motion. Distantly, she heard her spinny-chair slam into the back of her cubicle, but nothing was broken, and, even if it was, she was too far down the rabbit hole of plotting out her approach to solving this latest _Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen_ mystery to have cared anyway.   
  
Not even waiting to see if pseudo- _Megan_ would advance or attempting to puzzle out exactly what _Megan’s_ stand-in dessert consisted of and why that was deemed better than Felicity’s own entry, Felicity put her computer to sleep, turned off her monitor, and started gathering up her things. “Fool the general public once,” she muttered to herself while tossing her cell phone into her purse and pulling out her car keys, “shame on you.” Coat, scarf, hat, and gloves were put on and fastened. “Fool the general public twice, and I’m going to nail your shady heinie and expose this insulting and sexist dating competition for the crock of deceit it really is.”  
  
In an indignant huff, Felicity swept out of her office, hitting the light switch a little harder than necessary and making plans for Week Four. She didn’t need to see the results to know that _Megan_ was advancing, and she certainly didn’t need to know the next baking theme, because the only thing she’d be cooking up anytime soon was a way to perceive, present, and prove the truth.  
  
Oh, and payback.  
  
Felicity Smoak was _definitely_ going to be cooking up some payback for one Thomas ‘I’m a Cad’ Merlyn.  
  
And it was going to be _delicious_. 


	5. Week Four

**Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen  
Week Four**

**Week Four Baking Challenge: A Blinged Out and Non-Traditional Yule Log**

It was late.  
  
It was late, Oliver was exhausted, and all he wanted to do was hide away from the rest of the world. That evening had marked the halfway point of the competition. Oliver had thought that benchmark would prove reassuring. If he made it halfway without anyone discovering _Megan’s_ true identity or Oliver’s plan to guarantee her the win, then he’d feel more confident in their chances to both make it to the end unscathed. Halfway through meant only half as many contestants, and halfway through meant his mother, Thea, Walter, and Tommy would all be that much busier with their own lives. With parties to attend and plan and holiday shopping to complete, they’d be otherwise distracted and perhaps not as attentive to the contest as they had been when it was fresh and new, when it was just starting off and they were unsure of its success. Plus, by moving out, he had hoped to not only secure a little more freedom and provide his family with a little more security, but he also thought physical distance might inspire some emotional distance as well.   
  
Oliver had been wrong.   
  
So very wrong.  
  
“Digg, when you get this, call me back… or, better yet, stop by, so you can drop off Felicity’s entry for this week.” After not getting to see (just see, for there would be no more tasting) _Megan’s_ week three baked good, Oliver had reluctantly asked Diggle and Raisa to not throw out the desserts they replaced on his behalf. Looking forward to examining Felicity’s idea of a yule log had been the only thing that helped Oliver get through his evening _after_ the tasting. Pinching the bridge of his nose as the elevator doors opened to the top floor of his apartment building, Oliver exited the lift and continued, “we’re going to have to rethink our plan a little bit. My mom just read me the riot act for giving you the _afternoon off to go to the dentist_. It looks like Raisa’s going to have to… Tommy?”  
  
Without finishing his thought, explaining his abrupt topic change, or even offering his guard a salutation, Oliver ended the call. Confused at what he was seeing and slightly nervous as to what his best friend might have just overheard, Oliver came to a complete halt. He just stood there, watching as Tommy climbed up from the floor where he had been sitting against Oliver’s door. As Tommy dusted off the seat of his pants, he complained, “see, _this_ is why I should have a key to your place.”  
  
He said nothing about the competition, nothing about a plan, and he asked no questions. Oliver sighed in relief. Resuming his walk towards his loft, from his left front pants pocket, Oliver pulled out said key. “If I gave you a key, Speedy would have a copy within 24 hours. Besides, the point of getting my own place was so that nobody - not even you, Tommy - could just walk in whenever they please… like at the mansion.”  
  
“Well, I’m not a nobody, and you underestimate your sister. It’d be less like 24 hours and more like 24 minutes.” Rather than verbally responding, Oliver just quirked his eyebrows in an ‘I told you so manner’ before unlocking the door. Without invitation to follow, Tommy dogged his steps. However, his best friend could not go far, because they lights were off, and it was long past dark. Tommy certainly did not have the night vision Oliver now had after five years of living in nature. “Besides, I’d respect your need for privacy more if I knew you were doing something _private_ with it.” Oliver flipped several switches to turn on the loft’s overhead lighting, and Tommy gazed about the space he had never seen before. “Dude, you left your _mom’s_ … where I know for a fact you scored countless times… to move into your own place and live like a monk.”  
  
The best way to distract Tommy Merlyn was to ignore him. And change the subject. “So, what brings you by, Tommy?” Glancing into his kitchen, Oliver was relieved to see that no evidence of his duplicity was within sight. Once reassured, he spun back around on the heels of his feet to face his childhood friend. “Judging by your sit-in on my doorstep, I’m guessing this isn’t just a social call.” Prompting him further, Oliver asked, “what’s up,” while folding his hands into the front pockets of his dress pants.   
  
And that was all it took. Dramatically, Tommy collapsed into the nearest chair - an armless, leather piece that Thea had picked out. Well, really, besides Oliver’s bed… and his kitchen, Thea was responsible for everything. While he liked how large and open the loft was, everything that filled it was just… stuff. It took up space, and it gave the appearance that he lived a life just like everyone else, but Oliver didn’t actually use or appreciate any of the furniture or accessories Speedy had purchased on his behalf. “Man, I’m being… I don’t know? - stalked? Yeah.” Tommy nodded emphatically to agree with his own conclusion. “I’m being financially stalked.”  
  
“Your dad is checking your credit card statements?”  
  
Tommy snorted. “I wish! If this was the work of Malcolm Merlyn…? Well, let’s just say it wouldn’t be happening at all, because my dad would never donate _this much_ of his own money to charities he can’t manipulate and/or exploit. No, for once in my life, something terrible is happening to me, and my dad _isn’t_ to blame.”  
  
So… this _wasn’t_ going to be a quick chat. Stripping off his jacket and tie, Oliver chose the sofa across from his best friend, keeping a comfortable distance between them. As he talked, he undid the wrist closures of his dress shirt and rolled up the sleeves to his elbows. “Tommy, I don’t understand. Is someone else watching your spending on your…?”  
  
Just as Oliver had taken a seat, Tommy popped back up and started pacing, interrupting Oliver. “Every time I buy something that _possibly_ could be connected to a date or sex - condoms, fancy dinners, booze, clothes, cologne, hair gel, my credit cards are making donations - _large_ donations - to Planned Parenthood, the International AIDS Vaccine Initiative, RAINN, Women’s Funding Network, Girls Not Brides, Days for Girls, the Center for Reproductive Rights. You name it, if it has something to do with women, women’s health, or the prevention and/or treatment of sexually transmitted diseases, I’m donating to it.” Tommy was talking rapidly, gesticulating wildly. “Every time Tommy Merlyn buys a condom, a lady gets free birth control. Which is fine. Which is great. I love birth control! But I can’t pay for _everyone_ in the world to have safe sex, because then my father will cut me off, and I’ll be the only person not having sex at all.”  
  
Oliver couldn’t help himself. Tommy opened himself up to the shot, and Oliver took it. “So, what you’re saying is that women only have sex with you for your money?”  
  
Tommy threw up his hands in exasperation. “I don’t know. Maybe! I’d like to think it’s also sometimes about my devilish good looks, perhaps my charm, but I’d rather not risk it just the same. Besides, that’s not the point, Ollie!”  
  
Except… Oliver was starting to wonder if maybe it was kind of the point. Or at least some of it. However, he did not say as much - partly because it might put his childhood friend on a trail Oliver did not want him to find let alone pursue and partly because, before he could say anything, his front door was opening, and John Diggle was walking into the apartment, already talking.   
  
“So, I got your voicemail, but what if Raisa’s not always….”  
  
Cutting him off and rushing towards the door despite trying to look like he was doing neither, Oliver exclaimed, “Diggle! Tommy’s here, and he needs our help, so you have great timing.”  
  
“Wait, so your body man has a key but I don’t?”  
  
“It’s body _guard_ , Tommy,” Oliver was quick to contradict his best friend.   
  
But the correction did nothing to ease the immediate irritation that flooded Diggle’s posture. “So, help me, Merlyn, if you call me Benson….”  
  
“Don’t worry,” Tommy reassured. But Oliver took that as anything but reassurance. Physically, he felt his shoulders becoming stiff with tension. “I’m diggin’ the scene, diggin’ on you, diggin’ on me.”  
  
“Clever. Original. I’ve never heard that one before. And not disturbing at all. Sir.”  
  
“Tommy here,” Oliver attempted to redirect the conversation back towards safer ground. Meanwhile, he was grateful to see that Digg must have left Felicity’s yule log in the car. Perhaps he heard him say Tommy’s name before hanging up and took the precaution to be on the safe side. “He was just telling me that he’s become extremely charitable recently.”  
  
“Well, tis’ the season,” John remarked drily.   
  
“Except it’s completely unwittingly and unwillingly,” Tommy groused.  
  
Under his breath, Digg commented, “why doesn’t that surprise me?”  
  
“Apparently, something has happened to his credit cards so that, every time he purchases something that could be used… in the company of a date, he makes a sizable donation to a charity that helps women.”  
  
“Sounds like you’ve been hacked, Merlyn.”  
  
“But who hacks a billionaire….”  
  
“A billionaire’s son,” Diggle oh so helpfully supplied via an interjection.  
  
But Tommy, if he heard him, didn’t pay him any mind. “ … and then pretends they’re Mother flipping Teresa?!”  
  
“Well, I don’t know,” John mused sarcastically. “Have you insulted any women lately?” Oliver shot him a dark look… which was promptly and precisely ignored. Apparently, he and his guard had the same suspicion: Felicity was the mysterious benefactor. Or attacker… depending upon one’s point of view. She had the skills. That’s why this competition had become so complicated in the first place - because Oliver had gone to her with a request to use her computer skills in order to look into the contestants. Due to her disgust towards the entire PR strategy, he had assumed she’d stay as far away from _Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen_ as she could, including skipping the broadcast and only finding out if she was eliminated when she stopped receiving the next week’s baking challenge. Except… what if he was wrong? What if she was watching, witnessed Tommy’s _performance_ from the week before, and was now putting those very same computer skills to use in teaching Oliver’s childhood friend a well-earned and well-payed for lesson. “Hurt any women lately?”  
  
“Hey,” Tommy held his hands up in self-defense. “I don’t do that.”  
  
“He didn’t mean physically, Tommy.”  
  
“Look, I’ve never claimed to be Prince Charming, but I also don’t make promises to the women I… _date_... either. When they _go out_ with me, they know exactly what they’re going to get: a good time. For both of us. There’s no insult in that, no hurt.” Chuckling ostentatiously, Tommy shared, “let’s just say I’ve never heard any complaints… if you know what I mean.”  
  
Cynically, John challenged, “never?”  
  
“What can I say? I’ve got mad skillz, Mr. Diggle.”  
  
Luckily, a snort of derision, of doubt, was the only objection Digg offered before shifting gears and trying to refocus Oliver’s best friend. “What about embarrassment?”  
  
“I don’t see how mutually assured orgasms could ever be embarrassing.”  
  
“Perhaps it’s someone you’re _not_ sleeping with,” Oliver suggested. If the words came out slightly clipped, he felt it was justified. Tommy was being an insensitive ass. He used _Megan_ and humiliated her in order to get under Oliver’s skin. After his week three _antics_ , Tommy had confessed that he altered _Megan_ ’s bio, because he thought Oliver had cheated, looked the women up, and was pushing _Megan_ through, because she was the hottest. If Tommy made her seem like a gold digger, then Oliver would either cop to his scheme in order to continue with it, or he’d eliminate her when Tommy labeled her a social climber. When, instead, Oliver confronted Tommy with _Megan’s_ real profile, his best friend spilled the truth. Even though Oliver had intended to research the women beforehand, his reasons had been far less superficial than looks, and it had been with everyone’s best interests in mind, including the women who were his potential date, so he felt no guilt for his annoyance towards Tommy. And, now, not only was Tommy dismissing Felicity by so easily forgetting what he had done to _Megan_ the week prior, but also, by claiming that the woman who was targeting him _had_ to be someone he had slept with, he, in a way, was implying that he had slept with Felicity… which just added insult to injury. “Perhaps it’s a woman who wouldn’t sleep with you.”  
  
“Well, that certainly narrows the pool down,” Tommy chuckled, “and leaves us with… your mother and sister.”  
  
Ignoring Tommy, Diggle turned to Oliver and complained, “this is pointless. If the man wants to be a damn fool, let him. He deserves everything _this woman_ can do to him.”  
  
“Why do I get the feeling you know something I don’t, Mr. Diggle?”  
  
“Because if I knew even just one thing, then your ‘feeling’ would be accurate.”  
  
“Look, Tommy, it’s been a _really_ long day, and I’m sorry that you’re afraid of what your dad might do once he learns about the hack, but computers are not exactly my area of expertise. Just… stop going out for a few days, stop buying the items that trigger the donations.”  
  
“ _That’s_ your advice,” Tommy asked him incredulously. “ _That’s_ all my _best_ _friend_ has to offer me?”  
  
Oliver just shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “I’m sorry, but… yeah.”  
  
Shaking his head in frustration, Tommy pointed at both Oliver and Digg. “There’s something going on here, something more than just judgement,” he glanced at Oliver’s guard, “and avoidance,” he finished towards Oliver himself. “And it has something to do with your reality competition _and_ my credit card situation. I will figure it out.” While the proclamation was made as a promise, it felt more like a threat.  
  
“Just… give it time. Stay out of the contest, Tommy,” Oliver advised him. “And everything will eventually return to normal.”  
  
“Including you,” his childhood friend asked. The question was voiced only part in jest.   
  
It was Digg, though, who diffused the situation, snorting, “this one,” while hooking a thumb in Oliver’s direction. “He’s rich, so he’s never been normal.”  
  
“So, it’s on like that, huh, Mr. Diggle?”  
  
“If you quote that damn song one more time….” Turning to Oliver, John asked, “just how much time did he spend obsessing over girl pop groups while you were growing up?” Tommy was still chuckling even as the door to Oliver’s apartment closed behind him. As soon as he was gone, Digg turned serious once more. “We have a problem.”  
  
“I’d say take your pick at this point, Digg.”  
  
“No. It’s something else, something you don’t already know about.”  
  
“Can you just… give me a few minutes before springing _something else_ on me,” Oliver requested. “While you run down to the car to grab Felicity’s yule log, I’m going to change, and then we can talk.”  
  
“But that’s just it, man. There is no yule log.”  
  
While Oliver had made a salted dulce de leche buche de noel and then painted it with edible, gold lustre dust, tucking metallic tissue paper twisted to resemble the ends of a piece of candy into his cake at both sides, all he really wanted was to see what Felicity came up with to meet the week’s challenge. He had been inspired by those hard, caramel candies his Grandfather Dearden had been partial to - the ones he’d keep in his pockets and then would sneak to Oliver when the women weren’t looking and were busy cooking (supervising) Christmas dinner in the kitchen, but Oliver was more interested in what childhood memories Felicity’s submission might reveal about her and her past than he was in remembering his own. “Wait? You threw it out again? Why, Digg? I asked you to save it and bring it to me no matter….”  
  
Cutting him off, John clarified, “no, man, you’re not getting it. There is no yule long, because there never was one.”  
  
“So, you’re saying…?”  
  
“Felicity didn’t submit _anything_ this week.”


	6. Week Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so pretty, don't you think? All thanks for this story's banner go to @victori96572376 who not only made the banner but also contacted me and offered to design something for this fic. I'm so excited to share it, this chapter, and the rest of this story with all of you. I hope everyone is having a wonderful holiday season. 
> 
> ~Charlynn~

**Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen**

****   


**Week Five**

**Week Five Baking Challenge: Christmas Cookies Inside of an Edible Gift Box**

Felicity wasn’t angry anymore.   
  
Now, she was just sad - sad for Oliver Queen and his situation, but also sad for herself, too. And hurt. Did he not think that she’d understand? That she’d, if not sympathize, then at least be sympathetic? Certainly, Oliver didn’t think she’d judge him, did he? Because she wouldn’t. Never! But, apparently, there was something about her… or, at least,  _ Megan _ , that he felt was untrustworthy and closed-minded, judgemental. And  _ that’s  _ what stung.   
  
Not enough to prevent her from confronting him, but, still,  _ ouch! _ __   
__   
After the clusterfrak that was week three, Felicity took the mystery that was her disappearing baked goods and the magically appearing perfect, substitute baked goods into her own hands. The best part? It was a cakewalk… which was fitting, seeing as how her cakes were, in a way, walking off. But, anyway, her plan: rather than waste her time making a yule log, Felicity  _ logged into  _ the Queen Consolidated security system,  _ repositioned _ the many cameras on the first floor to give her the best sightlines going in and coming out of the what had been the ‘tasting room’ for the past month, and then sat back and watched the fly walk into her electronic web.    
  
After watching Mr. Diggle, Oliver Queen’s personal bodyguard, deliver a decadent dessert tricked out to resemble a ginormous piece of hard caramel candy, Felicity had tried to let it go. She had solved the mystery… well, most of it. She still didn’t know who was baking the imposter sweets, but she had at least figured out the why and how which were the most important parts, in her opinion. But then that last little question started to tickle at her brain, and then the distress that, of all people, Oliver Queen didn’t feel like  _ she  _ could be trusted started to worry her heart, and she just couldn’t drop it.    
  
She had to know more.   
  
She had to know everything.   
  
And she had to confront Oliver Queen.   
  
So, that’s why Felicity found herself here - out of breath, slightly frazzled, and about to cause her own termination from her job. Because, after what she was about to do, there was no way Oliver Queen wouldn’t have her fired. And probably blacklisted, too. But as long as there wasn’t a  _ literal  _ black list, at least Felicity’s concerns were alleviated somewhat by the fact that, anything Oliver Queen put in her record, she could take out. (And replace with something  _ way _ better.)   
  
Slumped against a wall, Felicity took a few minutes to calm down. Or, well, to calm her  _ breathing  _ down, because, after following a woman she discovered to be the Queen family’s head housekeeper all over town until she finally led her to Oliver Queen’s new den of iniquity (not because of his secret but because he was Ollie Queen), Felicity hadn’t wanted to get caught in the homestretch, so, after seeing the Queen family employee take the elevator all the way to the top floor, she had taken the stairs… which, now that she thought about it, made absolutely no sense, because, by the time Felicity realized where the housekeeper was going, she was already there which meant the elevator had been open.   
  
“I really watch too much TV,” she mumbled under her breath, grousing.    
  
With one last, deep, fortifying breath, Felicity pushed away from the wall and stood up straight. She ran her hands down her open coat and dress underneath, smoothing out any wrinkles, and she tightened her ponytail like a soldier checking his weapon one last time before going into battle. With shoulders rolled back and chin tilted up in feigned confidence, she marched towards the one and only door on this uppermost floor. The only sign of weakness Felicity allowed herself was to bite her lip, because that could look fierce, too, right? It could look determined?   
  
Lifting her right hand to the door, Felicity wrapped her knuckles against its metal surface three, succinct times. Because ‘3 is a magic number.’ And who didn’t love men in three piece suits; and 3D; and tricycles; and Harry, Hermione, and Ron?! Plus, she couldn’t forget three sheets to the wind… which was something Felicity very much wanted to be in that moment. But then, just as quickly, as her brain ran through the list of all the good things that came in threes, she couldn’t help but remember that it was actually  _ bad things _ that always came in threes. She was just about to knock one more time… just to be on the safe side when, before she could even fully lift her hand again, no one other than Oliver Queen himself was pulling open the door.    
  
“Felicity?”   
  
And she just stood there - balled up fingers partially raised like in some sad mockery of a fist pump, mouth gobsmacked and hanging open, and speechless. Utterly speechless… for probably the first time in her entire adult life. She just stood there as Oliver Queen did this ridiculously adorable (and wasn’t that just unfair?!) head tilt and said her name in a way that no one else ever had - like it was an actual physical caress, and its four syllables were a soft and gentle hand down his back as he stretched luxuriously like a cat.   
  
But, wait. What?! He said her name?   
  
_ Her name? _ __   
__   
“You know who I am?”   
  
And, just like that, there went the silence, no doubt never to be seen or (not) heard from again.   
  
With that one question, Oliver seemed to come back to himself. Felicity watched as he shuttered his face off from all emotion, and the head tilt was replaced with the stiffest, most proper posture she had ever seen. Her own shoulders ached in commiseration. Taking a deep step back, Oliver opened the door further and invited, “I think you should probably come in.”   
  
And she did.    
  
To give her hands something to do besides flap all over the place as she talked, Felicity unwound her scarf from her neck and then proceeded to wrap it around her hands and wrists and through her fingers, tightening and then releasing it with the flexing of her knuckles. “Look, I’m sorry for just… showing up here like this and for, um, stalkingyourmother’shousekeepertofindoutwhereyoulive, but I just… I had to know.”   
  
She watched as, with brow furrowed, Oliver looked away from her and then towards said housekeeper before turning that puzzled expression back on her with full force. “Know what?”   
  
“Who was baking those desserts switched out for mine. I mean  _ Megan’s _ .” Giving up the ruse, she confessed, “ _ I’m  _ Megan - panda mug  _ Megan _ .”   
  
“I know.”   
  
“So, okay. Wow. And, um, huh?” Realizing she should probably clarify that, Felicity asked, “how,” because  _ that  _ certainly cleared things up. Not.    
  
“That’s a long story.” When she went to protest, Oliver promised, “and one that I will tell you, but, first, to answer your question: I baked the substitute entries.”   
  
And the unexpected revelations just kept coming!   
  
But, on second thought, given the why of the baked good conspiracy that she had previously figured out, this who did fit. “Everything about you is suddenly becoming so much clearer.”   
  
Doubtful, Oliver queried, “it is?”   
  
“Well, yeah. I mean, not to be cliched, but of course you can bake.” Nodding towards the posh loft, Felicity added, “just like you can decorate.”   
  
“My sister bought everything.”   
  
“Oh. Well. Still,” she reasoned…  _ oh so elegantly _ .   
  
“I’m afraid I really don’t understand.”   
  
Felicity was still standing in the doorway, and Oliver was directly in front of her with several feet separating them, while his family’s housekeeper was silently yet intently watching them from the kitchen. No one made a move to make the situation any less awkward than it was. And, in the silence that fell on the large space after Oliver voiced his confusion, Felicity felt an intense need to just explain herself as quickly as possible so that she could then leave, disappear, and never see either of the other two adults again.   
  
“It’s okay. You don’t have to pretend with me. Or lie. Or cover it up. Not with me. I know your secret. I figured it out. And I support you.”   
  
“You do?”   
  
“Of course!”   
  
If possible, Oliver started to look even more uncomfortable. With his arms folded across his chest… like he was trying to protect himself, he asked, “what secret?”   
  
“That you and Tommy Merlyn are dating.”   
  
Soft laughter from the kitchen pulled Felicity’s attention away from Oliver, but before she could glare at the older woman for reacting so immaturely to what was such an important moment for Oliver, the man she was so quick defend started choking himself, and Felicity rushed up to help. “Breathe,” she instructed while patting his back. “Just breathe. You’re okay.” It felt weird - touching her boss’ boss’ made-up boss, but Felicity Smoak was not a woman to just stand there while someone needed her assistance.    
  
Well, not  _ touching _ . But touching.    
  
Same word, different meaning.  _ Trust her _ .   
  
Still sounding like he was wheezing, Oliver questioned, “you think I’m dating Tommy?”   
  
In that moment, Felicity realized the coughing fit was less about a panic attack and more about a laughing jag of denial. Well, Oliver could deny the truth all he wanted; Felicity wasn’t going to let him get away with it. After pulling her into this deception without her permission, she felt she at least deserved that much.    
  
“Well, to be completely honest, after I saw your bodyguard, Mr. Diggle, drop off what I now know to be  _ your  _ yule log last week, I at first thought you were dating him. But then I recalled Tommy’s  _ performance  _ from the week before, and realized that nobody would react that way towards your unwitting beard on another man’s behalf. I’m guessing he wants to go public with your relationship and resents the fact that, not only are you hiding that the two of you are together, but you’re pretending for this competition, and you’ll eventually go out on a date with whoever you select to be the winner. And, now, since you just revealed to me that you know who I am and who  _ Megan  _ really is, I’m guessing you did some kind of vetting, and we - Megan and I - are about to be the  _ lucky winners _ in a few weeks.” The more she talked, the more Olive’s mouth fell open - shocked, no doubt, that she had managed to piece together the mystery that was  _ Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen _ .    
  
“I’m not… I mean, all those girls! In my past. And, then, yeah, the island, but still….” Compassionately, Felicity observed Oliver as he struggled to arrange his thoughts and spoke in sentence fragments. Usually, that was her, so, despite trying to be supportive, she couldn’t help but appreciate someone else flubbing their words. It was a rare respite. But it didn’t last for long, because, the next thing she knew, Oliver Queen was rapidly eating up the distance between them, taking her by the shoulders, and leaning down to lock their gazes together so that she couldn’t look away even if she had wanted to, even if she tried. All of a sudden, she was being bombarded by the full force of Oliver Queen’s intensity and vigor, and, it was, like, whoa! “Felicity, Tommy and I are not dating. I’m not gay. I’m not bi. I never have been, and I never will be.” He didn’t even look away from her when he asked, “right Raisa?”   
  
“Oh,” Felicity sighed in disappointment. She hated being wrong. Then, stepping away from Oliver in order to move more between the other people in the room and looking between them, she sighed in realization. “Ooohhh! I get it.” Wagging a finger back and forth between Oliver and the woman she now knew to be named Raisa, she said, “you two.”   
  
The housekeeper didn’t respond, looking puzzled. Meanwhile, Oliver, sounding as confused as ever, queried, “us two what?” Without giving Felicity a chance to respond, he again beseeched the older woman to back him up by prompting, “please, Raisa. Please tell her that I’m not gay.”   
  
“Of course you’re not, Mr. Oliver.”    
  
Was it just Felicity, or did the housekeeper say that in a way that was…  _ obedient _ ?    
  
So, it was like that. “Kinky,” she remarked under her breath.   
  
But, apparently, it wasn’t quiet enough, because Oliver heard her and questioned, “what?”   
  
Holding up her hands in self-defense (Hands that were suspiciously scarf-free, so she’d have to find that. Later.), Felicity reassured, “hey, don’t worry. No judgements here.”   
  
“No judgements,” Oliver asked.   
  
“Nope. This is a judgement free zone.”   
  
“Judgement about what,” he still pretended like he didn’t know what she had assumed (rightly, of course) from what they, Oliver and Raisa, had (not so subtly, in her opinion)  implied.    
  
“You know….” When Oliver still didn’t relent, give in, and admit she was right, Felicity expanded, “while I’ve always been more a ‘Vogue’ girl, myself, you’re obviously partial to ‘Human Nature.’ And that’s fine. To each their own, and you do you. See. No judgements.”   
  
“I really have no idea what you’re talking about, Felicity.”   
  
“But I guess this means I’m not your beard but your, what?, backpack? No,” Felicity immediately shot down her own suggestion. “That’s a little too Teddy Bagwell for comfort. But, clearly, we need something youthful - no offense, Raisa, because you’re dating someone who is as old as your mother, Oliver. But, again, no judgements. I mean, daddy-kink is a thing, right? So why not BDSM mommy-kink as well? And it makes sense, I guess. Moira Queen always indulged your every whim, and then you were gone from all the comforts of hearth and home for five years. Of course you’d want something maternal, yet you’d still crave the control of being a dom. And, oh, I got it!,” Felicity announced, snapping her fingers to emphasize her spark of genius. “I’m your wig, because,” and she pointed towards her ponytail, “no gray hair.”   
  
It was Raisa who actually spoke first. “Oh my! You, Miss Felicity, are not nearly as innocent as you first appear.”   
  
“Oh, no!,” she immediately objected, backing away from the housekeeper. “No, no, no, no, no! While I’m all about keeping an open mind, and I would be the last person to question anybody’s relationship given that the only meaningful one I had was with a guy who stole a computer virus I wrote, committed an act of terrorism with it, went to jail, and then hung himself, count me out! I’ll be your wig, but I will not be your third.”   
  
“Felicity.” This time, when Oliver said her name, it was less like a caress and more like a reprimand but certainly not any less expressive. She heard censure and disappointment, regret and dismay, even a smidgen of humor. He waited until she turned to face him before he continued talking. “Raisa and I are not in a relationship either. In fact, I’m very much single right now. By choice. The reason Digg and Raisa have been helping me switch out your baked goods is because, after everything that has happened to me, I don’t feel comfortable going out on a blind date - both out of my own sense of self-preservation and in concern for the woman. I struggle with seeing people as… well, people now. Everyone looks like a threat. Everyone, that is, except you.”   
  
When she went to say something, when she went to ask a question - there were so many questions!, Oliver gently prevented her from doing so by calmly, even soothingly continuing his explanation. “Before this all began, I went to your office one day to ask you for help. I wanted you to research the women in the competition for me, see if you spotted any red flags, and help me figure out which contestant might be the safest option. However, before I could even say anything, before I could even walk into your office, I heard you talking on the phone. With your mom. And I found out that  _ you  _ were one of the contestants.   
  
“Just  _ listening  _ to you, you made me smile. You made me laugh. And you made me feel comfortable. There was just something about you that made me feel like you’d be safe, that you wouldn’t judge me, and that maybe you could even be a friend. Since the island, that had never happened before you, and it hasn’t happened since you either. So, I decided that, no matter what, you as  _ Megan  _ were going to win  _ Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen _ .”   
  
“Until you tasted my food.”   
  
“Even then,” Oliver admitted, chuckling. “I just… needed to make it more convincing for everyone else.”   
  
She sat with that - and everything else he had told her - for a minute, digesting all of the information. Eventually, Felicity admitted, “okay, I guess I get it, but the thing I don’t understand…” At Oliver’s challenging, raised brow, she amended, “ _ one of  _ the things I don’t understand is why you agreed to this stupid reality competition in the first place?”   
  
“The last thing I remember about my sister is her bugging me to watch  _ High School Musical _ with her.  _ Again. _ In my mind, Thea’s still that pigtails wearing little girl with braces. The angry, bitter seventeen year old woman she is now? I don’t recognize her. Yet, when my mom suggested this competition, for the briefest of moments, I saw my mischievous, precocious sister again, my Speedy. And my mom, Walter? The first night I was back, I crassly insulted their marriage and nearly killed my mother when she tried to  _ comfort  _ me while I was having a nightmare. Taking part in this PR stunt to repair my image is the least I can do for them.”   
  
“One last question,” Felicity requested.   
  
“Sure.”   
  
“If you thought I was someone who could be your friend, why didn’t you just… ask for my help? I would have given it.”   
  
“Felicity, I heard what you thought about the contest  _ and  _ about me,” Oliver offered in way of an explanation. She winced, recalling that…  _ colorful  _ phone conversation with her mother. “While I hoped that I could trust you, I wasn’t there yet. Plus, you were already nervous about what would happen at QC if anyone figured out that you were Megan.”   
  
“Well, that’s just stupid,” she snapped, sleep-mode glaring at him. She wasn’t mad exactly, but Oliver Queen’s logic train wasn’t fully hooked up and on the track. “In keeping this from me, you’ve only made it worse, because, now, if someone were to find out, not only would they think I was intentionally deceiving them about my identity but that I was also deceiving them about my baking skills  _ and  _ defrauding the other women.”   
  
Seemingly to ignore her reprimand, Oliver asked, “ _ would have _ given?”   
  
“What?”   
  
“You said that you  _ would have  _ given your help. If I had told you, asked for your help. Before.” He swallowed roughly, and she should not have found the simple movement of his throat muscles as… captivating… as she did. “So, does that mean you’re going to tell everyone the truth?”   
  
“Hey, do I look like a tattletale to you,” Felicity snapped rhetorically. “Of course not.” Before Oliver could get too excited, she warned him, “but I have four demands.”   
  
“Whatever they are, yes,” Oliver was quick to agree, though the naive, sweet idiot really had no idea who he was dealing with or what he was so easily agreeing to.   
  
“First of all, if we’re going to do this, if we’re going to pull this plan of yours off, we need to KISS it.”   
  
Oliver smirked. “Kiss it?”   
  
“No,  _ KISS  _ it,” Felicity corrected him. Because, obviously! “Keep it simple, stupid. Cut out the middleman and middlewoman.” With a glance towards the kitchen out of the corner of her eye, Felicity offered, “sorry, Raisa, but, if we’re not going to get caught, I actually need to be involved. I need to know what’s being baked, I get a say in the ingredients….”   
  
“Oh, don’t worry,” Oliver reassured her. “I’ve been careful about that. No nuts… just in case. Your mom made sure  _ Megan  _ had a nut allergy as well, so I’ve honored that in what I’ve baked in her… or, well, your… name.”   
  
Felicity continued on as if Oliver had not interrupted her. “ … I’ll be in charge of presentation from now on, and, in order to avoid suspicion, I really should be the one to deliver the baked goods to the judging room.”   
  
“Good. You will bake, then, with Mr. Oliver,” Raisa announced.   
  
Ugh… say what?! “I will?”   
  
“Yeah. I can teach you how to cook,” Oliver offered. “It’ll be fun.”   
  
Felicity actually thought it kind of sounded like the housekeeper was attempting to set them up and that Oliver was just going along quite willingly for the matchmaking ride. But that was crazy talk. Or, well, thinking. So, pushing forward, she moved onto her second demand. “Two, enough with being such a Christmas-homer. There are other holidays this time of year besides Thanksgiving and Christmas. A dreidel or two won’t kill you.”   
  
“You’re Jewish,” Oliver asked, sounding surprised.   
  
“Is that a problem?”   
  
“No. Of course not.” And the accompanying grin proved as much. “We can certainly bake with Hanukkah and your heritage in mind.”   
  
“Third, I want my panda mug back.”   
  
Rather than verbally replying, Oliver shot towards the kitchen and returned to her with said coffee cup in hand, holding it and presenting it to her like it was the finest piece of china from the Queen family’s collection.   
  
Rich people were so weird.   
  
Taking the mug back from him, Felicity listed her fourth demand. “And, finally, you better have some of those lemon bars and gingerbread cookie pieces left, because I’m  _ starving _ .” And she really was. But that’s what she got for, while waiting for Raisa to finish at the butcher’s, actually watching that night’s  _ Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen  _ segment. Those clips were like torture… for her appetite. One glance at Oliver’s  _ frosting decorated  _ gingerbread gift box filled with ooey-gooey lemon bars, and Felicity was a salivating, starving mess. The least Oliver owed her was some of the mouth-watering nosh he’d been taunting her with for weeks now.    
  
“Even if I didn’t have any left over - which I do, I’d bake a fresh batch now, just for you. In fact,” Oliver added, “you name it, and I’ll make it for you, Felicity Smoak. Anytime.”   
  
Oh, no.   
  
She was in  _ so much  _ trouble.   
  
Because the way to a Smoak woman’s heart was through her stomach. (Well, actually,  _ first  _ it was through shoes, but food, especially sweet food, ran a very close second.)   
  
And like Oliver Queen couldn’t bake for her  __ and  buy her shoes.    
  
Oy.   
  
So. Much. Trouble. 


	7. Week Six

**Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen  
Week Six**

** **

**Week Six Baking Challenge: A Christmas Tree Made of Cream Puffs with a Chocolate Tree Topper**

“Mr. Diggle!” Felicity’s voice was so bright, so cheerful, Oliver stopped in his tracks, looking up. Unfortunately, he was met with nothing but the broad shoulders of his bodyguard, John having gone to Felicity’s door first. “Happy holidays!”   
  
“You…,” before finishing his thought, Digg turned around and glared at Oliver. The dark look spoke of fear and worry. “She knows who I am, man?”   
  
But it was Felicity who answered. “Of course I know who you are: you’re John Andrew ‘Digg’ Diggle, born 1977. After three tours in Afghanistan with the Army, you were honorably discharged as a Master Sergeant. You have a black belt in jeet kune do, and you’re proficient at boxing, tae kwan do, kickboxing, weaponry, and you can also pilot a helicopter. Rather you than me,” she added as an aside before returning to her summation. “You have black hair… when it’s not shaved, brown eyes, you’re 6’2’’, and you weigh approximately 210 pounds. You’re brother to the deceased Andy Diggle, brother-in-law to Carly Diggle, uncle to A.J. Diggle, and ex-husband to Lyla Michaels… whom you met during your second tour in Afghanistan but separated from after returning stateside. You re-enlisted for your third tour; she joined Argus… which I realize, technically, I’m not supposed to know about, but whoops! That cat’s out of the bag. Sorry, Amanda Waller. Anyway, back to you. Your drink of choice is whiskey, though you’re also known to enjoy a nice, cold beer, and you always order a Big Belly Buster when you visit your sister-in-law at her place of work. You….”   
  
It was at this point that Oliver elected to interrupt her, because, quite frankly, he wasn’t sure how much more Felicity knew… or how much more Digg could handle before he had an aneurysm. Or a panic attack. “You never told me that you were married before, Digg.”   
  
But his comment went unnoticed, unheard. “Miss Smoak….”   
  
“Please, call me Felicity.”   
  
The invitation also fell on deaf ears. “I do not have the same kind of pockets as Merlyn Junior. You hack me - for charity or not, and you’ll bankrupt me.”   
  
They were still standing in Felicity’s doorway - Felicity holding the door open, Oliver and Diggle stacked up out on the stoop like sardines weighed down with a ridiculous amount of shopping bags. “Hacking is such an ugly word,” Felicity protested, cringing as if John’s comment physically stung her.    
  
“That’s not the denial I was hoping to hear.”   
  
And then, with one liquid, light, and sunny peal of laughter, Felicity eradicated any and all tension. “You’re a good man, John Diggle.” The statement said more than any denial ever could. “Now, please, come in. You’re letting all the warmth out, and I’m dressed for heat.” Digg hadn’t even made it two steps passed the threshold… which meant Oliver was  _ still  _ outside... before Felicity was pausing, spinning around in a rush, and clarifying, “I meant because of all the cooking. Of food. In the kitchen. Because that’s where one cooks. Well, not me. But Oliver. I presume. We won’t be doing anything else hot. Or cold. Anywhere else. Or doing. Except cooking. And oh my god, this might be worse than accusing Oliver of having an illicit, secret affair with Tommy Merlyn. And then Raisa.”   
  
Diggle practically choked on his laughter, and, if Oliver shut Felicity’s front door with a little more force than necessary, he felt it was justified. “Really, Felicity? You said you wouldn’t tell anyone about that.”   
  
The woman in question sidled up to Oliver’s side. Any and all animosity he was pretending to feel disappeared at the sight of her bottom lip caught between her teeth, and he’d be a liar if he failed to admit, at least to himself, that the little, spaghetti strapped, fuschia tank she had on didn’t hurt her case either. Out of the side of her mouth, she faux-whispered, “Oliver, he thought I was talking about cooking  _ in the bedroom. _ ”   
  
“No, he did not,” Digg answered for himself. “At least he didn’t until you just mentioned it.” And then John laughed some more before making his way through Felicity’s apartment without invitation. He stopped in the kitchen, unceremoniously dropping all of his bags onto the counter before retracing his steps back towards them. “As fun… and as disturbing as these last few minutes have been, I have a date with that whiskey you mentioned earlier, Miss Smoak, and you two have a date with each other.”   
  
“It’s not a date,” Oliver and Felicity simultaneously contradicted. Oliver then glanced over at her… only to find Felicity’s eyes already on him. While he was hoping to gauge her feelings towards the idea of them dating, of them possibly becoming something, something more, maybe even a couple, he wasn’t sure what her reaction, looking at him, meant, though it did buoy his hope.    
  
John huffed, rolling his eyes. “Sure, it’s not.”   
  
“No, really,” Felicity said. She used a reassuring tone, though whose mind she meant to put at ease, Oliver wasn’t quite clear on. “This is just a part of the plan… you know, so Oliver doesn’t have to go out with a stranger.”   
  
“See, I always looked at it as the plan to make sure that Oliver went out  _ with you _ .”   
  
Following in his guard’s footsteps, Oliver went to the kitchen, wanting to diffuse the awkward tension but, at the same time, allow his guard’s words to sink in for Felicity. However, unlike Digg, he unloaded his arms in a much gentler manner. Baking supplies and equipment needed to be treated with care. “It’s cooking lessons, Digg.” Nobody responded, so Oliver rejoined them in the living room, coming to stand next to Felicity… as if he was pulled to her. They never touched, though. So, when Oliver felt the hair on his arms lift and rise, he excused it as the weather. It was dry, and it was cold - the perfect conditions to promote static electricity. The fact that he inhaled deeply to breathe in Felicity’s green apples, lime, and… was that spearmint?... scent was just a coincidence.    
  
Refocusing on the room and people in it, Oliver looked up to meet his bodyguard’s knowing smirk. “Right,” John agreed. However, his tone spoke of everything and anything but acquiescence.   
  
Luckily, Felicity didn’t seem to notice. As she went to open the door for Digg, she asked him, “are you sure you don’t want to stay? It looks like you two brought enough food for my entire neighborhood.”   
  
“That’s not all food, Miss Smoak,” Digg corrected her. “Yes, Oliver brought some ingredients with him, but most of those bags are full of kitchen appliances and tools. And, yes, I’m positive about leaving. I left my tricycle days behind me many, many years ago.” Although John made an effort to lower his voice, Oliver could still hear him clearly. “Be careful with him, Felicity.” The blonde looked up into the guard’s face, obviously curious as to his meaning. “He moved out of his family home, because he felt trapped there by his mom, by his sister. He tenses every time they try to hug him, yet he  _ chooses  _ to stand close to you. And he enjoys it.”   
  
Before she could question his words, object further, or even react, Digg was gone, closing the door himself behind his fleeing steps. Oliver watched as Felicity turned to him, bewilderment crinkling her brow. “I don’t get it. What does biking have to do with food?” Obviously, she was pretending like the private words Diggle shared with her had not been said. And Oliver was alright with that. “And I’ll have you know, I can at least ride a two-wheel bike, Oliver. I might not be Mr. Diggle levels of athletic, but I’m not completely… Oh.” Realization dawning, Felicity’s skin - her cheeks, her neck, the roundness of her delicate shoulders - flushed a soft shade of pink. Her lashes fell to shutter her gaze from him as she looked down at her feet, the toes of her left foot scuffing against the hardwood floor. Oliver noticed her nails were painted a blinding shade of electric blue… which was just another example of her vibrancy. “Third wheel.”   
  
It was then in Felicity’s embarrassment and bashfulness that he realized, if one of them didn’t say something - and Felicity was making it quite clear that she wouldn’t be the one to broach the topic, they’d persist in this limbo of denial. Felicity would continue to claim they were spending time together for the plan, for Oliver’s peace of mind, to protect her job; and Oliver would go along with it, perhaps elevating their interactions to cooking lessons… as he had just a few minutes prior. But if he wanted it to be more - and he did, if he wanted to go on a single date with Megan but an unlimited amount with Felicity, then he was going to have to risk her rejection. By her reactions towards others proposing they should go out with each other, Oliver knew that, if nothing else, at least his physical attraction was returned. Now, he needed to find out if, for her, it was anything else. If it could be anything more.   
  
“You know, it could be - I mean, only if you wanted it to be, of course…. But I’m open to the idea. Of it… being a date. Of tonight being a date. A first date. For you and me.”   
  
“Wow. Five minutes in my presence, and I’ve already corrupted your speech patterns and ability to form a complete sentence.”   
  
Sighing in both amusement and exasperation, Oliver good-naturedly chastised, “Felicity….”   
  
“Right.” She shook her head, apparently in an attempt to focus. “The date. Our date. You, Oliver Queen, and me, Felicity Smoak. Tonight. In my apartment… while I’m wearing yoga pants and a cami. Without a bra. Holy frakking frak.”   
  
He chuckled, and he did everything within his power  _ not  _ to verify her lack of a bra with his own eyes, but he failed, so then it was Oliver’s turn to blush. “So, uh, is that a yes?”   
  
Although Felicity crossed her arms over her chest, it had nothing to do with protecting her modesty and everything to do with scheming. Standing a few feet away from her, Oliver could see the mischievous wheels turning in that brilliant brain of hers. Then, her full, bubblegum hued mouth curved into a moue, and Oliver knew he was in trouble. “I’m not sure. I think I want to see what you can do first.” He quirked his brows, smirking, and Felicity shouted, “in the kitchen! With food! And  _ so  _ not in a dirty way, because, ew, sticky.” A little shudder punctuated her latest, leading babble.    
  
It wasn’t an outright refusal. In fact, it felt more like a flirty yes than a gentle no, so Oliver decided to let Felicity off the hook. Nodding over his shoulder towards the aforementioned kitchen, he requested that she follow him… which she did. Once they were standing at the counter piled high with shopping bags, shoulder to shoulder, Oliver asked her, “have you ever made sufganiyot before?”   
  
In answer, Felicity tilted her head and glared at him over the top rim of her glasses.    
  
“Well, I hope you don’t mind, but I went ahead and decided we’d fill them with raspberry jam. Because of the powdered sugar dusting, I thought we’d go with white chocolate for our topper and tree decorations, and white chocolate is best paired with a tart fruit. Normally, I’d use either a gooseberry or a cranberry jam, because they’re not as sweet as raspberries, but I didn’t have the time to order the gooseberries, and  _ Megan  _ already used cranberries for one of her desserts.”   
  
“ _ Megan’s  _ lucky that she didn’t cheat and look ahead, because there’s no way I’d put anything named after a bird in my mouth.” He watched her as she seemed to pause for a second, considering her proclamation. “Well, other than chicken. And turkey. But they’re supposed to be food. Who wants to eat something that reminds them of their first trip to the beach when they unceremoniously sat in goose poop and then had to immediately leave?”   
  
“Felicity,” Oliver chuckled. “People roast geese, too, you know.”   
  
“Not my people. And, by that, I mean Smoaks. Not Jews. I have no idea if other, possibly less stomach-sagacious Jewish people eat roasted geese.” After making a gagging face, Felicity continued on, “granted, we Smoaks are a rare breed. There’s just my mom and I, but, clearly, we have better sense than these people you speak of.” While Oliver laughed, Felicity pressed on, “and I don’t want to rain on your round jelly donut parade, Oliver, but the challenge calls for cream puffs.”   
  
“It does, but I’m the judge, and you were right when you said the challenges are too focused on Christmas. There are other holidays to honor with our desserts. So, we’re going to compromise.  _ Megan  _ will still submit a tree, but it will be a sufganiyot tree instead of a cream puff tree, and we’re going to decorate it with molded, white chocolate ornaments in the shape of dreidels, candles, menorahs, and gelt.”   
  
Teasing him, Felicity asked, “so, did Wikipedia sucker you into donating to them when you looked up Hanukkah?” After a giggle, she sobered. “Seriously, though. Thank you, Oliver… for taking what I said - and my heritage - to heart.”   
  
He paused in his unpacking, met her gaze, and smiled. “You’re welcome, Felicity.” After a moment, he suggested, “now, let’s get to work. We have a lot to do tonight.”   
  
“Plus, you need to feed me,” Felicity reminded him.   
  
“Plus, I need to feed you.”   
  
“And I’ll be grading - you know,  _ evaluating _ your  _ dating  _ skills.” A beat passed before she said, “yeah… whatever. I let that statement stand, alluding or not.”   
  
“Alluding. Definitely alluding,” Oliver requested much to Felicity’s habit of blushing’s distress and his own delight.    
  
Despite the flirting, they did settle down to their work, and Oliver refused to allow Felicity to be a mere observer… or just a taste-tester as she had proposed. While he would explain, demonstrate, and even physically guide her actions, there was no sitting on the counter for her. After organizing their supplies and running through how to use the stand mixer, Oliver had Felicity measure out the flour, the sugar, the yeast, and the salt, making sure she didn’t over or under pour and that she leveled their measuring cups and spoons. Using the whisk, they mixed the dry ingredients, and then switched out the whisk for the hook and started adding the egg yolks, one at a time, and the milk. Then, Oliver had her put in the butter. As the dough started to really come together, as it became smooth, and shiny, and elastic, he watched as a little pride started to bleed through in Felicity’s avid gaze. Because she practically refused to blink while the dough mixed, Oliver started on another task, turning around to the opposite side of the kitchen to oil a large bowl. It was just about five minutes later when a metallic clanking noise followed by the mixer coming to an abrupt halt alerted him to the fact that his attempt to multitask might have been a terrible idea.    
  
“What happened?”   
  
Felicity’s back was towards Oliver. “Nothing,” she mumbled.    
  
Or, at least, he thought she was mumbling… until she turned around, swallowing nervously, thickly. Oliver’s gaze went from her throat, to the counter where he found a mangled spatula, and then back to Felicity’s mouth where, despite her best attempts to erase the evidence, a small smidgen of dough was stuck to the corner of her lips. “Nothing?”   
  
“I think the mixer might have given up the ghost.”   
  
“It’s brand new.”   
  
“Well, maybe it’s a lemon.”   
  
“And the spatula?”   
  
“What spatula?”   
  
“The spatula on the counter beside your hand that looks like someone - or some _ thing  _ \- took a bite out of it.”   
  
“Oh!  _ That  _ spatula.”   
  
When Felicity refused to say anything more, just nodding her head like they were in agreement in solving the spatula mystery simply by acknowledging its existence, Oliver decided to try another tactic. Without saying a word, he mimed wiping food from his own mouth. “William Fudging Shatner!,” Felicity exclaimed under her breath. She lifted a hand to wipe her lips so forcefully that Oliver could hear the skin of her fingers slap against that of her cheek. “Alright. Fine. You caught me,” she finally admitted, making him grin widely. “I was really hungry, and the dough smelled  _ so  _ good, and you never said that I couldn’t taste it or that I shouldn’t put a spatula in the mixer while it was running… which, granted, in retrospect does not sound like a well-advised course of action. But me?  _ Super  _ hungry, remember? So, I… tried to get a little taste. An… appetizer, if you will.”   
  
“And succeeded from the looks of it.”   
  
“Yeah. But not before breaking your mixer.”   
  
“This isn’t my mixer, Felicity.” She scrunched up her face in puzzlement. “It’s yours.”   
  
“Uh, no, it’s not.”   
  
“It is. This,” he gestured around them. Quite frankly, it looked like a department store’s homewares department threw up inside of Felicity’s kitchen. He might have gone slightly overboard. “This is all yours. I bought it for you. For our cooking lessons… and date nights in.”   
  
“That’s just nutty as a fruitcake. (Ha! Baking reference!) And kind of (which by kind of I actually mean definitely) weird. Normal people do not do that on a maybe, iffy, it’s technically up-in-the-air, my decision is still pending first date, Oliver.”   
  
He just shrugged his shoulders, because what else could he do? The mixer… and other assorted kitchen equipment… were already out of the bag.   
  
Oliver watched as Felicity’s expression went from bafflement, to consternation, to dismay. Finally, she settled on unplugging the mixer and, wordlessly, handing him the bowl while taking the rest of the appliance with her out into the living room. It was Oliver’s turn to be confused as Felicity carefully deposited the Kitchenaide onto her coffee table, temporarily disappearing down the hall which, he assumed, led to her bedroom, only to reappear moments later with a small tool bag (of course, it was the color of a ballet slipper) and a box of odds and ends, all mechanical looking. “Uh, Felicity? What are you doing?”   
  
“Do you have any idea how expensive these things are? Oh, what am I saying,” she answered her own question with sarcasm. “Of course you do! You just bought me one… as a first date gift.”   
  
Oliver wanted to point out that she had just admitted and accepted the fact that they  _ were _ on a date, but Felicity seemed too distressed for gloating. So, he refrained. Instead, he repeated, “yes, but, again, what are you doing?”   
  
“I’m staying in my wheelhouse, and you’re staying in yours. You make the donuts, and I’ll rebuild the mixer’s motor.”   
  
“You’ll… rebuild… the… motor?”    
  
For the first time since caving and admitting her guilt, Felicity met his gaze. “Oliver, a gear is a gear is a gear. A nut’s a nut. Wires are wires. If it is powered by electricity, I can build it. Apparently, I can break it as well, but that also means I can fix it. So, that’s what I’m going to do: I’m going to fix the mixer.”   
  
Not capable of keeping a straight face any longer, Oliver broke out in a huge grin. “You, Felicity Smoak, are remarkable.”   
  
“Yeah, well, you better hope your food tastes as remarkable as it looks, because I’ve been known to get hangry, it’s passed my dinner time, and I do not grade on a curve, mister.   
  
“Challenge accepted, Miss Smoak.”   
  
Oliver had never liked nor cared about school. In fact, he’d failed out of four colleges, and barely skated through high school by cheating off whatever girl he was ‘dating’ for the week, but this was one test he was determined to ace.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, all thanks to @victori96572376 for the lovely, lovely banner. 
> 
> ~Charlynn~


	8. Week Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's tradition that Oliver be referred to as a big, dumb pine tree, but I went in a slightly different direction with his vegetation comparison. I hope the deviation meets your approval. :-) As always, thanks for reading, and I hope everyone enjoys the update.
> 
> ~Charlynn~

**Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen** **  
** **Week Seven**

** **

**Week Seven Baking Challenge: A Multilayered Cake Depicting a Treasured Holiday Scene - Sledding in a Winter Wonderland**

She was baking.   
  
_She!_  
  
As in her.  
  
Felicity Smoak.  
  
Felicity _Megan_ Smoak, born in 1989 to Noah Kuttler and Donna Smoak. Jewish. Computer and cyber security expert. Blonde haired (ish) and blue eyed. Mint chocolate chip ice cream and red wine enthusiast. Babbler.   
  
Yeah. _That_ Felicity Megan Smoak.  
  
Where was she?  
  
Oh, yes.  
  
Baking.   
  
_She_ was baking… which meant that she was measuring, and whisking, and mixing, and stirring, and frosting, and decorating.   
  
B - A - K - I - N - G, Baking. (You’re damn straight that was with a capital ‘B.’)  
  
And, no, not with an easy bake oven either, thank you very much.  
  
Now, granted, all of this food wizardry was going down under the strict guidance and supervision of her baking sensei, but, still, she was actually allowed to really and truly contribute. And the most amazing part? No fires! No diced off appendages, no singed off eyebrows, no emergency skin grafts required.   
  
Oh, and did she mention that she was also _dating_ her baking sensei, Oliver Queen?  
  
Yeah.  
  
_That_ Oliver Queen.  
  
And, yeah, _her_!  
  
Felicity Smoak.  
  
Felicity _Megan_ Smoak.  
  
And, no, Felicity shook her head in self-reprimand. She wasn’t falling down that particular rabbit hole again. Pausing in her flouring of the _many_ cake pans she was preparing, Felicity got herself back under control. She took a deep breath, held it in her lungs until they started to burn, and then she exhaled slowing, centering herself. Once she felt calm, she returned to the task at hand.  
  
It was just… _Oliver_. While she still liked to tease him, withholding the carrot which was her admission that their nightly dinners and cooking lessons were actual dates for as long as possible, the last eight days (and nights!) had been amazing. He was just so sweet. And attentive. And, for some strange, unexplainable reason, he found everything she did to be brilliant. Forget that he was the impressive one. _He_ was the one who survived five years of hell. _He_ was the one who came back and immediately accepted a position within his family’s company, a company he had no interest in running but recognized that it needed him. _He_ was the one who made Julia Child look like, well, a child. _He_ was the one that, despite her black thumb in the kitchen, was endlessly patient with and encouraging of her attempts to learn how to bake.   
  
“So, what do you think of my idea for the cake?”  
  
Startling Felicity out of her thoughts as he rejoined her at his kitchen’s gargantuan sized island (or was it a peninsula? Felicity needed to brush up on her interior design-speak if she was going to be spending time in such a posh place… and she very much was.), Oliver’s question brought her back to the moment. She couldn’t help but grin over at him, because in his apron with his sleeves rolled up and his feet bare, Oliver was adorable. (And she kind of wanted to jump him, but baking first; _cooking_ later.) “Is there a way to make two different colored batters without them bleeding together? It’s just, usually, underneath the loose, powdery layer of snow, there’s a harder, more compact layer, right?”  
  
Oliver’s eyes lit up. Felicity wasn’t sure if it was the thought of sled riding, her suggestion and interest in what they were making together, or just the idea of challenging himself further in the kitchen. Or, knowing Oliver, it was probably a combination of all three options, the sadist culinary-overachiever. “You want to make both green velvet and white velvet to represent a more realistic hillside?”  
  
“Well, I guess,” Felicity shrugged, because, yeah, that was her idea, but was white velvet even a thing? Up until a few minutes ago when Oliver explained his idea for their cake to her, she’d only ever heard of red velvet. Green velvet had seemed strange enough, but at least she knew that green food coloring existed. White food coloring on the other hand…? “Can you even do that?”  
  
“Yes, _we_ can do that.” And _then_ Oliver seemed to become even more excited, and she started to worry. Just what exactly had she gotten herself into with this suggestion? “It’ll give me the opportunity to teach you how to separate eggs.”  
  
“Well, that just sounds unsanitary,” Felicity pouted.  
  
Oliver’s only response was a deep rumble of laughter.   
  
Just as Oliver was attempting to hand her the first of the dry ingredients, a third voice - one that _soooo_ should not have been there - interrupted their quiet and private date night in. The sharp tattoo of heels against hardwood which accompanied it fell on Felicity’s ears like the drum beat announcing her impending execution. “Really, Oliver, the security in this building is atrocious. _This_ is what Mr. Diggle deemed an appropriate place for you to live? You know, I’m really starting to believe that I made a mistake hiring that man. If nothing else, I’m convinced that you should have guards 24-7 and not just during the day when you’re traveling to and from work.”  
  
At first, Felicity was frozen: dead-cave-woman-carcass-in-a-stadium-sized-sheet-of-glacier-ice frozen. However, as soon as Moira Queen in all her scary, intimidating, formidable glory rounded the corner and stalked purposefully into Oliver’s dining area directly across from where they stood behind the island-peninsula-large counter space thing-y, Felicity moved faster than she ever had in her 23 years of life. She dropped it (her entire body) like it was hot. (And the fiery flames of hell which lapped at Moira Queen’s heels made a very powerful case that it was indeed quite warm all of a sudden in the loft.) She hit the floor like a ton of bricks. (And, if her desperate actions didn’t result in her presence remaining hidden, then those very same bricks would later be tied to her feet before Felicity was unceremoniously thrown into Starling Bay.) She fell down like a dead (wo)man. (And, yeah, Felicity didn’t really think that one needed any explanation. The statement kind of spoke for itself. As for her slight change to the expression, even in death - perhaps even more so, because legacy! - one should still remain a feminist.)  
  
“What was that,” Moira Queen demanded to know. Felicity hoped she was referring to a mouse, or maybe Oliver gave her some resting bitch face for just showing up, unannounced, or, hell, she’d even take a ghost. Sure, she didn’t really believe in ghosts, but one would actually be a small comfort at this point. However, despite her desperate flailing about to hold onto her optimism, Felicity pretty much knew that she was doomed.   
  
“Mom, what are you doing here?”   
  
From her perch beside him on the floor, Felicity cheered on her boyfriend. _‘You go, Glen Coco!’_  
  
Ha.   
  
Her boyfriend.  
  
_Her_ boyfriend.  
  
And, gah, no! Bad rabbit hole.   
  
Clenching her hands into fists to use the bite of her nails into the fleshy meat of her palms to ground her, Felicity tuned back into the conversation just in time to hear Oliver ask, “ … you even get into my apartment?”  
  
“She slipped the doorman $50, Ollie, and then he slipped her your key. It’s not rocket science, big brother.”  
  
_Oh, great_ , Felicity bemoaned her luck from where she curled herself into an even smaller ball on the floor of Oliver’s kitchen. Not only was Moira Queen here, but Thea Queen had crashed her date with Oliver as well - Thea who, Oliver had told her since they started dating, was uber suspicious of Oliver’s behavior in connection with _Bake for the Funeral of the 19th Amendment._ She was so screwed. _They_ were so screwed. And the worst part was that they hadn’t yet, well, _screwed_. However, from this angle Felicity could really tell just how big Oliver’s feet were, and, um, yeah. That just made this whole frakked up beyond repair situation just that much worse. And unfair.   
  
“ _Who_ was that, Oliver?”  
  
“Who _was_ …,” confused, Oliver’s words trailed off as he turned to her only to find her not there. Brow furrowed in puzzlement (towards her) and exasperation (towards his mother, Felicity could only assume, because she was right there with him), he asked, “what are you…,” only for Felicity to cut him off with slicing motions at the neck and her deadly stink eye. Hey, when one couldn’t use their loud voice….  
  
With over exaggerated enunciation, Felicity silently mouthed up to him, “deny, deny, deny! Tell her nobody’s here.” Hands on hips, puzzlement morphing into amusement, he just watched her… tenderly. Ugh. Her boyfriend was such a maple tree: tall, and broad, and strong, and sappy, and sweet, and hard. _Wait, no_ , Felicity backtracked in her own mind. Not hard. Hard was bad. Well, not _bad._ In fact, it would be pretty damn great just as soon as she could get rid of his mother and sister. Just… not good _now._  
  
With a chuckle, Oliver knelt down beside her. If Felicity’s eyes just happened to be drawn to the way his pants _adjusted_ with the movements, she excused their lingering as her reward before what was sure to be an imminent death by mama-matriarch-bear-glare. Plus, _angles_! “Felicity, she saw you.” Although Oliver spoke softly, the loft was otherwise silent, so there was no doubt his family could hear him.   
  
“Oliver, ix-nay on the elicity-Fay. Do you really want them to know about me?”  
  
“I think it’s a little late for that now, hon.”  
  
_Oh god_ , she bemoaned to herself. _Not a term of endearment_! Remember a Smoak woman’s romantic cryptonite, food and shoes? Well, during the last eight days, Felicity had learned that she was susceptible to something else: schmoopie nicknames. “Just… tell her to get her eyes checked,” Felicity whispered in response. At Oliver’s doubtful look, she latched on even tighter to her idea. “No, seriously. At her age, cataracts really do become a thing, Oliver.”  
  
“I can assure you that my vision is just fine,” Moira Queen announced. At the same time, Oliver took Felicity by the arms and picked her up. By the time she was standing on her own two feet beside him, she could have given Mooshoo a run for his money in the red-faced department. Granted, he was a cartoon dragon, but, still, raging drunk with high blood pressure _and_ rosacea was not a good look on her.   
  
“Mom, Thea, I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, Felicity Smoak.”  
  
Before Felicity could shyly wave or even offer a mortified ‘hey,’ Moira Queen was already chastising her son. “Oh, Oliver.” Disappointment dripped from her tone.   
  
“Ollie, please don’t sugar coat your manwhore ways for my sake. I’m eighteen. I know what sex is. _Trust me_. And I know that sex does not equal a relationship. You’ll just give mom an aneurysm and this poor girl delusions of grandeur.”  
  
Okay. So much for mortification. With just a few sentences, Thea Queen managed to provoke Felicity’s quite flinty temper. However, before she could blow a fuse… or, you know, the entire electrical grid of Starling City, Oliver barked at his sister, “Speedy, cut it out.” Although his family couldn’t see the gesture, Oliver reached over and linked his left hand with her right, tangling their fingers together. The simple, endearing touch helped. “Felicity _is_ my girlfriend. Calling her that has nothing to do with you or with mom and everything to do with her. And our relationship.”  
  
“Oh, so now you’re in a relationship with her,” Moira mocked. And… did she just shake her head in amused derision towards them? _What a_ … _!_  
  
“Yes. I am.” Oliver’s answer was pure and to the point, and the squeeze he offered her fingers was heartening.   
  
“Ollie, you’re not exactly an unknown commodity in this town.” Felicity hated that Oliver’s sister saw him that way, that she referred to him in such a way. (And it also tweaked her nose that, instead of having the decency to lob her insults face-to-face, Thea was wandering around the open floor plan of Oliver’s loft, lifting items and peering around others… like she was inspecting the apartment or, more likely, sizing it up, despite the fact that Oliver had told Felicity that Thea had purchased most of his furniture for him.) “If you’re really dating this girl, why haven’t I seen your pictures together on page six or on the gossip blogs?”  
  
“She has a name, Thea, and I would appreciate it if you used it.” Rather than acknowledging his request, Thea just raised an impatient brow as she awaited Oliver’s answer to her question. “And there’s been no pictures of us, because we always stay in.”  
  
Deciding she had allowed him to fight this battle for too long on his own, Felicity added, “Oliver comes over to my apartment. We have dinner; we drink some wine. He stuffs me full, and then he goes home.” When Thea started to giggle and Moira gasped, taken aback, Felicity voiced her bewilderment. “What?” She turned to Oliver as she started to replay her own words back in her mind. “What did I…? Oh.” Voice rising in panic and in frustration, she attempted to defend herself. “I didn’t mean…! We’re not…!” Letting go of Oliver’s hand and throwing her own arms up into the air, Felicity snapped, “we haven’t even had sex yet!”  
  
That put the sweaty gym sock in Thea Queen’s oh-so-deserving trap, but, instead of giving Felicity a sense of accomplishment in regards to proving Moira Queen wrong, she just became nervous when a gleam of cunning artifice entered the older woman’s eyes. Oliver, unfortunately, didn’t seem to pick up on his mother’s slyness. Then again, did baby boys ever truly see their mommies for who they really were?  
  
Once more holding Felicity’s hand, Oliver proclaimed, “we’re taking it slow, because… it’s been a lot. Coming back. Plus, Felicity and I just met, and I want to do this right. Do right by her. Because… she’s kind of remarkable.”  
  
“So, the two of you just met,” Moira Queen repeated. Unlike her daughter, Moira stood perfectly still… like a soldier only more fearsome and less honorable. Rather than a gun, she wielded a designer clutch, the bag clasped daintily by both of her hands and held at attention in front of her. Felicity had no doubt that, if she felt the need, Moira Queen could launch that purse like a boomerang, its weaponized leather returning right back to her grip upon silent command.   
  
On the surface, Moira’s rhetorical question could have seemed like she was trying to express an interest in their relationship, but Felicity didn’t buy it. She didn’t buy it for one second. Instead, she’d bet that Moira was actually fishing for a weakness, something that she could exploit to get what she wanted which was obviously not Felicity. For Oliver. Of course, _she_ didn’t _personally_ want Felicity.   
  
And it was official: her brain was actually a mine field. One wrong tangent, and BOOM!   
  
“Pray tell, where did that happen?”  
  
Felicity looked over to Oliver just as he was glancing in her direction. She tried to grin coyly… like the two of them were sharing some precious, romantic memory, but really she just wanted to make sure they were on the same page about their cover story. There was no way they could tell Moira Queen, his mother and her boss, that they met after Felicity stalked Oliver to his supposed to be top secret apartment through the family’s housekeeper in order to confront him about his baked goods shenanigans and deceptions. Not only would Moira Queen probably have Felicity locked up and the key not only thrown away but melted down if she learned of the true origins of their relationship, but she’d also use the revelations to get Oliver back under her gabled and gargoyled roof.   
  
“We met at Queen Consolidated, actually,” Oliver answered. It was as close to the truth as they could possibly offer up to his family, and it was simple. Felicity approved.  
  
“Oh, Oliver, do you really think that’s appropriate?”  
  
“Yeah, Ollie,” Thea joined in, chortling at her brother’s expense. “Haven’t you ever heard of the expression ‘don’t shit where you eat?’”  
  
“Thea Queen,” the mother turned on the daughter, aghast. Up until that point, they had been quite the classy and trashy tag-team, but, apparently, _that_ had gone too far in the social niceties book of Moira Queen. Not, you know, Thea’s many references to and stark mentions of sex. But poop.   
  
Taking advantage of his mother’s wrath being directed elsewhere for the first time that evening, Oliver offered up, “QC is a big company. Thousands of people work there.”  
  
“Yes,” Moira conceded, “but Starling is a big city. There are even more people, more women, who _do not_ work for the business our family owns.”  
  
“Felicity and I don’t actually work together, mom. We’re on different floors, I’m several levels removed from being her immediate supervisor, and we’ll continue to be discreet.”  
  
“Well, I would hope so considering you’re less than two weeks away from being contractually obligated to date another woman.” Turning her faux concern onto Felicity, Moira asked, “has he told you about the other women and about the dating competition, dear?”  
  
“Uh, yeah, I know about the contest where you’ve reduced women down to nothing more than wannabe 1950s housewives and your son into a vacuous playboy prize. Even if Oliver and I hadn’t discussed _Baking for a Beefcake_ , it’s kind of hard to miss unless, you know, you actually _are_ from the 50s and time traveled here without the proper working knowledge of modern technology.”  
  
“And there are no other women,” Oliver picked up the defense of their relationship where Felicity left off. “There’s just Felicity. Even after _Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen_ is over, I won’t be _dating_ the winner. There will be one _dinner_ , and, during that dinner, I will make it abundantly clear to the winner that I have a girlfriend and am quite happily off the market. The only reason I agreed to this contest is to make _you_ happy, mom and Thea. And let’s not kid ourselves. Nobody here had any intentions of making anything actually come from this charade. Mom, you’d be horrified if I ended up with a woman I met through a local reality show. After all, that’s far too crass for a Queen.”  
  
“And you think some silly girl who plays games and makes sexual innuendos is a suitable partner for you, Oliver?”  
  
“No, I think _a smart, funny, beautiful woman_ who graduated with dual masters degrees from MIT at 19 and who ranked second in the National Information Technology Competition is far too good for me, but, for some reason, she’s agreed to be my girlfriend anyway.”  
  
As a mumbled aside so only Oliver could hear, Felicity groused, “and we were calling _me_ the stalker?”  
  
Moira sighed, shaking her head in sympathy, in dismay. “My poor boy, I see what’s going on here, and it’s all my fault.”  
  
Confused, Oliver asked, “what are you talking about?”  
  
“By asking you to take part in this public relations campaign for Queen Consolidated, I made you feel inadequate, like you weren’t good enough just the way you are, like I wasn’t proud of the man you’ve become, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth.” Moira took a step closer to them, but she didn’t round the countertop. _Danke schoen, Wayne Newton; danke schoen!_ Because, if Moira Queen would’ve seen that Felicity and Oliver were _still_ holding hands and that, sometime during the hot mess that was Felicity meeting his family, they had started to play footsie behind the counter, too? Well, she would have had baby demons… which were otherwise known as kangaroos. “I love you just the way you are. You don’t need to… settle for someone you think the board will approve of, and you certainly don’t need to… stifle yourself to present a perfect facade to the public. That’s what image consultants are for, sweetheart.”  
  
Although Oliver had admirably maintained - quite frankly, Felicity was in awe of his control, and she had no idea how he hadn’t lost his temper several times over already - a calm composure the entire time his mother and sister had been present that evening, she watched as the threads of his self-restraint started to unravel. It was subtle, but it was also obvious if you knew how to look. If you knew _him_. Oliver’s jaw ticked, his nostrils flared, there was a small vein in his temple that began to throb, and his gaze narrowed just slightly. “I… that’s not… I’m with Felicity because I _want_ to be, because I _like her_. It has _nothing_ to do with you, QC, the board, or anyone else for that matter.”  
  
“Oliver, please,” Moira beseeched him. “ _I_ know _you_.”  
  
“Apparently, not as well as you think,” Felicity huffed under her breath so that only Oliver could hear her. In response, in thanks, he ignored his mother for just a moment and turned to place a gentle kiss upon Felicity’s right temple.  
  
Moira scoffed at the embrace, seemingly blind to any emotion or meaning behind it. “You’ve confirmed that you’re not sleeping with this girl, yet you insist she’s your girlfriend and that there’s no one else. That’s not you; that’s not my son.”  
  
“Maybe it is now.”  
  
“What…,” Moira started to ask, but Oliver talked over top of her.  
  
“And maybe it should have been all along.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Look, the past is just that. We can’t change it. But the present, the future? We can very much make both of those better. You’ve been so worried about showing the world that I’m a new man when it comes to Queen Consolidated and my professional life,” Oliver challenged his mother. “But you’ve completely ignored the fact that _I’m_ different. I’m more serious about QC, about my place in the company, and fulfilling my role as dad’s heir, because I’m not that selfish, shallow, stupid kid who got on that yacht five and a half years ago.   
  
“More importantly, I’m also not that guy who believed his self-worth was measured by how many fast cars he owned; by how much he could drink; by how he had more money than anyone else; by how he could do _anything_ he wanted, legal or otherwise, and it didn’t matter, because his money, or his power, or his parents could make anything disappear; or by how many women he could sleep with, use, and then throw away like yesterday’s garbage. That guy was an asshole, and I’d rather return to the island and live there for the rest of my life than _ever_ be like him again. And, if that’s your son, if that’s the man you want me to be, then you’re going to be sorely disappointed in me… just as, right now, I am disappointed in you.” For the first time since his family arrived, Oliver stepped away from Felicity. She watched with pride as he moved across the loft towards its entry, stopping only to open the door. “I think we’ve all said enough for one night. It’s time for you to leave.”  
  
“I disagree, Oliver,” Moira argued with him. “You know, I came here with a specific purpose. We need to talk. As a family. Alone. Perhaps you should tell your friend to leave instead.”  
  
Felicity watched as Oliver snorted at his mother’s audacity, shaking his head in disbelief. “Felicity was actually invited. You weren’t. She can stay; you need to go.”  
  
It was then that Felicity realized, during the majority of the confrontation, Thea had been rather quiet. When she looked over at the younger woman, she found her no longer snooping but instead a curious observer… except, her gaze was not on either her mother or her brother but upon Felicity herself. That was rather (translation: SUPER) disturbing.   
  
“I hardly need an invitation when it is my money which pays for you to live in this loft,” Moira proposed, undeterred.   
  
“I haven’t touched my trust fund, mom.” A weary, exhausted sounding Oliver lifted a hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “My salary covers rent and any other expenses I have.”  
  
Sounding so superior, so smug, so… snotty, Moira mocked, “yes, and who pays your salary, sweetheart?”  
  
“Using that logic, you pay for me to live in my apartment as well, Mrs. Queen,” Felicity said. “But, if you _ever_ let yourself into my home or bribed my super into giving you a key to my place, I’d press charges faster than you could condescendingly call me ‘dear.’”  
  
Sniping back at her, Moira asked, “and why would I ever want to come to your home, Miss Smoak?”  
  
“Well, if this past week is any indication, it’s where your son is going to be spending the majority of his nights.”  
  
_Boom_.   
  
_Mic_. _Dropped_.  
  
If the affronted look on Moira Queen’s face was any indication, this is where Felicity would have inserted some sort of boasting, bragging sports metaphor. Her closest equivalent was Ms. Pacman, though, so _suck it, Blinky, Pinky, Inky, AND Sue!_ It took _every_ ounce of her restraint not to fist pump.  
  
“Mom, just tell me what you want.”  
  
“As I already said, Oliver,” Moira turned back towards her son. “This is a family matter that does not concern Miss Smoak.”  
  
“Whether _you_ think it concerns her or not, whether you tell me now in front of her or you wait until you can corner me some other time when we’re alone, I’m just going to tell her anyway.”  
  
For the first time in some minutes, Thea spoke, “if it’s any consolation, mom, if she hasn’t spilled the beans to the press about dating Ollie, I highly doubt she’s going to tell them you’re going to be the next CEO of Starling City.”  
  
And the shade just kept coming from the Queen matriarch. Glaring at her daughter, Moira snarked, “yes, thank you, Thea, for risking my entire campaign on a hunch and your impatience.” When the younger woman just shrugged her shoulders without repentance, Oliver’s mother effected a grand air and announced to her son, “as your sister just implied, I am indeed running for mayor of Starling City. I was approached several months ago… right around the time when you returned home, in fact… by a concerned group of influential citizens, requesting that I consider running for office. After significant discussion, Walter and I decided that this is something I need to do for the people of this city. We, as a family, are so fortunate. It’s the least I can do, and we feel it’s time for us to start giving back even just some of what Starling has given to us.”  
  
“So, that’s really what _Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen_ is about,” Oliver realized. Felicity put two and two together and came up with 51% or more of the vote, too, but, thankfully, Oliver was the only one who voiced those suspicions.   
  
“I haven’t the foggiest idea of what you’re accusing me of now, Oliver.”  
  
And, yep, there it was: the folksy colloquialism. Apparently, practice for the campaign trail started before one even announced their candidacy.   
  
“You know what, mom,” Oliver chuckled, gesturing for her to leave. Surprisingly, Moira actually followed the silent command, striding regally across the loft and out of the door Oliver still held wide open. “I actually think that _you_ will make a great politician.”  
  
“I expect you to drop this attitude before the formal announcement, Oliver. You have eight days to adjust to the news. When you name the winner of _Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen_ , I will name my candidacy.”  
  
As she started to track her mother’s steps towards the door, Thea questioned, “speaking of your little reality baking/dating show, Ollie, what exactly is going on in your kitchen?”  
  
“We’re just making dinner, Speedy.”  
  
“Um-hm.” While the sound was typically used to express affirmation, upon Thea Queen’s lips, it sounded like anything but. And that was before she looked over her shoulder at Felicity one last time. Starting at Felicity’s feet, running all the way up her body, and then falling back down to finish the searching glance where it began, Felicity felt like she had just been studied thoroughly in only a matter of seconds. However, to Felicity’s shock (and kind of awe, too), whatever Thea found in her search, she kept to herself, walking out of the apartment without another word.   
  
It was only once Oliver had shut and locked the door behind his mother and sister (not that locks, apparently, served a purpose where the Queen family was concerned) that Felicity _finally_ took a deep breath. It had felt like a woolly mammoth had been dancing a jig on her chest the entire time the mother and daughter pair had been there. The pressure had been more than just the heaviness of an elephant; it had been smelly, too, because of the long, wet, dank hair, and it had been ominous, because, well, extinction was no joke, and, if anyone seemed powerful and scary enough to eliminate an entire species, it was Moira Queen.   
  
“Oddly enough, that was _not_ my worst ‘meet the family’ experience.” Yeah… meeting your college boyfriend’s parents at said college boyfriend’s funeral kind of set the bar pretty darn high. Or low. Depending upon one’s viewpoint. At Oliver’s incredulous expression, Felicity insisted, “no joke. Trust me, it can actually be more unpleasant than that.”  
  
His long legs made quick work of the distance that separated them. “That sounds like a story.”  
  
“It is. And I’ll tell you about it. Someday. But, for now, you and me, mister, we have bigger fish to fry. Or, well, in our case, bigger cakes to bake.”  
  
Gesturing defeatedly, Oliver asked, “at this point, should we even waste our time? I know I told my mother that a winner would be named, and that I’d tell _her_ about you, and this would all work out, but my mom _and_ Thea saw your face, Felicity. Originally, I thought I’d go on one _date_ with _Megan_ , appease the rules of the competition, and then, after my family had enough time to unjustly dismiss _Megan_ from their memories, I’d introduce you to them. But there’s no way our plan can work now. I just… didn’t want to give in to her. Not yet. But _Megan’s_ cover is blown, Felicity.”  
  
Placing one hand on his heart, while using the other to cup his jaw, she told him, “you leave _Megan_ , and your family, and our plan, and even this entire, offensive contest to me. I think we both can agree that I’m the brains of this partnership.”  
  
As if in despite of himself, Oliver smiled. “And what does that make me?”  
  
“The Betty,” Felicity was quick to reply, grinning smugly. “As in… Crocker.”  
  
He might have chuckled, but he didn’t concede. “Alright. I can accept that… except, I seem to recall that you thought, first, that Tommy was my secret lover and, then, that Raisa was my submissive mistress.”  
  
She rolled her eyes. “Nobody’s perfect, Oliver.”  
  
“Come on, hon, those were two pretty big brain farts.”  
  
Scowling at him and using the hand that was cupping his jaw to pinch his cheek, Felicity allowed, “alright, fine, you’re also the more emotionally attuned one in this relationship… so help us both, but, to pull this off, I don’t need to be aware of other people’s feelings; I need to be calculating. Cunning. I need to get my Machiavelli on.”  
  
“Yeah. I have no idea what… or who that is.”  
  
“Not the point,” Felicity was quick to dismiss. She pulled her palm off her chest, tucked all but her index finger into her hand, and then prodded that remaining digit into Oliver’s sternum. With every declaration and every poke, Oliver took a step back until he was leaning up against a floor to ceiling support column. “Who made Tommy Merlyn cry like a little bitch baby? Me. Who Sydney Bristow’d a former army officer _and_ a Russian housekeeper? That’s right: me again. Oliver, I was made to do this,” she stated as plainly as she could. “Will you let me handle this?”  
  
“Well, I don’t see as though I have any other choice, because I trust you, and you trust that you can pull this off, so, do your worst, Miss Smoak.”  
  
She grinned impishly. “Oh, my worst is _the best_ , Mr. Queen.”  
  
He leaned forward, kissing the very end of her nose, her chin, both of her dimples which were on full display, all the while chuckling. “Of that I have no doubt.”  
  
Felicity wrapped her arms around Oliver’s neck and then moved onto her tiptoes to kiss him softly, once and then twice. Just as he was about to deepen the embrace, his hands sliding dangerously low along the small of her back, Felicity pulled away. “So… cake.”  
  
“Right.” Oliver sighed, disappointed. She couldn’t really blame him. She _was_ pretty damn kissable, especially when plotting.   
  
“And then kissing,” she relented. On second thought…. “In fact, cake’s have to cool before they can be frosted, sculpted, frosted again, and then finally decorated, right?”  
  
Smirking (her smug maple tree probably knew where she was headed with this), Oliver agreed, “yeah…?”  
  
“I mean, like, _completely_ cool.”  
  
That cheeky smirk turned into a supernova smile. (No, really. Oliver should totally hand her a pair of sunglasses before he unleashed that blinding beam upon her.) “It’ll take hours.”  
  
“And we’re already considerably behind schedule because Lucille and Lindsay decided to stop by unannounced and unwanted.” Felicity could tell that Oliver did not recognize the reference, but she wasn’t surprised by that. Instead, what she really wanted to see was what his reaction would be when she made the suggestion she’d been leading up to now for quite some time. “So, maybe I should… spend the night?”  
  
“Yes,” Oliver adamantly stated, shaking his head in agreement as well. “Yes. One hundred times over. That is a great plan. The _greatest_ plan. You are definitely the brains of this partnership.”  
  
As they both turned back towards the undetermined land mass of a counter space before them and, without discussion, started working perfectly in tandem to begin making the cake batter, Felicity hip checked him. “So, that means, if I were to suggest that this cake would undoubtedly taste better if you made it without pants on, you’d listen to me, right?”  
  
In response, Oliver just leered, stripped, and then passed her the flour.  
  
As Felicity measured out the dry ingredients, there was just one thought… okay, so one _dominant_ thought… going through her head: back off, Barefoot Contessa, because _her_ Pantless Boyfriend was in the kitchen.   
  
Oliver Queen.  
  
_The_ Oliver Queen.  
  
Oliver _Jonas_ Queen, born in 1985 to Robert and Moira Queen, big brother to Thea Queen, and best friend to Thomas “Tommy” Merlyn. Rich white dude. Playboy, turned castaway, turned vice president. Blonde haired (legitimately) and blue eyed. Exercise and cooking enthusiast. Brooder.   
  
Yeah. _That_ Oliver Jonas Queen.  
  
Wait, where was she?  
  
Oh, yes.   
  
Pantless Baking Boyfriend.  
  
Man, rabbit holes were _so_ dangerous!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Banner by the amazing @victori96572376. Thank you!


	9. Week Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Everyone,
> 
> So, no excuses. While I have reasons for not posting sooner, they're not good enough. Instead, I will just offer you apologies. I should've have made you wait this long for the final chapter, and I'm sorry that it has taken me this long to post. I also want to thank anyone who is still interested in this story for not giving up on it or me. While it might take me years (hey, see, it could be worse!) to finish a story, I always promise to do so. With that said, I think it'll be a little while before I start any new Olicity fics. My attention right now is elsewhere. (Is anyone else here a Nadalind shipper?) Anyway, I hope this final post is everything you wanted for the conclusion of this story... and more! It's a long one... if nothing else. 
> 
> Enjoy,  
> ~Charlynn~

**Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen  
Week Eight**

**Week Eight Baking Challenge: Three New Year’s Eve Delicacies to be Served in Celebration to All at the Finale**

Oliver had never been this anxious. Given the life he had led up until that point, that was saying a lot.    
  
But perhaps anxious was the wrong word.   
  
What he was feeling wasn’t… bad. He wasn’t distressed or afraid. He wasn’t even worried, though a smarter man probably would have been. But this was perhaps yet another example of how his past experiences were influencing his present mindset. Plus, no matter the outcome of that evening - no matter what Felicity’s plan involved, Oliver was resolved on one thing: she  _ was _ his girlfriend.    
  
Whatever happened (or didn’t) because of  _ Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen  _ wouldn’t change that fact.    
  
His mother, his sister, his best friend? While Oliver them loved them all, he wasn’t going to allow their disapproval, their interfering, or their plotting to dissuade him from being with Felicity or scare her away from him. Perhaps most importantly of all, he wasn’t going to allow himself to sabotage their relationship either.    
  
Oliver no longer had to worry about the immature dating habits of his youth. He had no interest in playing the field or chasing other girls; Felicity was everything that he wanted.  _ And more _ . Commitment, for the first time in his life, wasn’t a scary concept... let alone prospect. In fact, he was looking forward to experiencing all those levels of a relationship with Felicity. Birthdays, holidays, anniversaries. Moving in together. Becoming engaged. Marriage. Kids. Sure, they’d only been dating for a couple of weeks, but, suddenly, the boy who couldn’t make up his mind over the simplest of matters was now a man who knew Felicity Megan Smoak was the only woman he wanted.    
  
And that wasn’t going to change any time soon.   
  
She made him… happy.   
  
It was such a simple concept for so many, but, for Oliver, it had always been a struggle. In his youth, it had seemed too… common. Why just be happy when you could be elated, euphoric, ecstatic? But those highs - sometimes literal - were difficult to continually reach, especially when one never mastered the simple joys in life and always sought gratification elsewhere.  _ Ollie  _ had been like an addict in that way. And then, in a shock of thunder, screaming metal, wind, rain, and crippling adrenaline, the very concept of happiness - uncomplicated and pure, borrowed and fleeting, or otherwise - became foreign.    
  
For five years, Oliver’s existence became one of survival - ugly, desperate, crude survival. Joy became  _ not  _ going to sleep with an empty stomach, and bliss was the reprieve of actually waking up the next morning without the injuries of the day before making him wish for death. Cheerfulness wasn’t a smile but, instead, was the acceptance that things could have actually been worse. Lian Yu should have been truly a deserted island, leaving Oliver unprepared and incapable of taking care of himself. Sure, one by one, he lost his friends, his mentors, his companions, even his enemies but not before they all taught him the valuable lessons Oliver would need to eventually make it home again. Even those losses had to become his peace, his hope, because Oliver swore their deaths would not be in vain.    
  
Starting with his promise to his father on that damn,  _ damned _ life raft, he had to live - not just for himself now but for his dad, too, and not just as he had before, but he had to live  _ better _ .  _ Be  _ better.  _ Do  _ better. As a man, a businessman, an heir, a citizen, a neighbor, a friend, a son, a brother, a boyfriend, a fiance, a husband, a father. Before his death - no,  _ his suicide _ , Robert Queen had confessed a confusing, oblique summation of his sins. He told his son that he wasn’t a good man, and then he begged him to fix his mistakes, and then he sealed Oliver’s unvoiced promise with a single gunshot to the temple. The frantic last seconds of his father’s life had been a terrifying, ambiguous blur for Oliver… like the mass of shadows that  _ could  _ be a monster when you’re a kid and, because you don’t know what your blurry, sleep filled eyes are actually seeing, is that much more frightening.    
  
But then Oliver found the seemingly empty notebook. And then he offhandedly discovered that his father’s notebook was filled with names - familiar names, prominent names in Starling City. And then, finally, the pieces of the mystery that Robert Queen’s last words had presented his dad to be slowly started to take shape for Oliver. He saw past the polished, glossy veneer of life in Starling City as a Queen and recalled that not everything, not everyone, found his hometown as safe and prosperous.    
  
As he ran, and fought, and clawed to persevere, to withstand, he started to remember other, obviously less immediate, threats to his life. After his dad shut down the Queen Steel Factory in the Glades, there had been death threats. Looking back, Oliver realized his parents had kept the brunt of the danger from both him and Thea, but, after that point, bodyguards and private security became a part of his daily life. His movements were restricted, for there were parts of the city that a Queen just couldn’t travel to without safety concerns. As he suffered the physical abuse of his captors, Oliver recalled protests against his family’s company, being driven through the streets of Starling only for people to stop, stare, spit, and swear at him.    
  
It did not take long for his desire to return home to transform into a need… and not because he was afraid of living his life without the material and emotional comforts of hearth and kin. Oliver realized just how much he had taken for granted and that maybe he could find that ever elusive feeling of happiness by also doing those very things his dad had beseeched of him and that his island friends had given their lives to help him survive for and actualize. It was an immense, nearly crippling burden to carry, one that certainly did not make returning and reacclimating any easier. Yet, Oliver assumed it willingly - even gratefully.    
  
He started slowly. Oliver went to work at Queen Consolidated. Not that he had any desire to do such things anymore, but he stopped using and taking advantage of people. Foolishly - no, naively, he thought that, if, in his position, his wealth, and his influence, he started to lead by example, others would follow. Just as his father’s fellow businessmen and women had been led astray along with Robert Queen, if Oliver Queen could show them that generosity and goodness could be just as rewarding, just as profitable, then they, too, could be steered back onto a better path. But Oliver couldn’t even positively impact his own family.    
  
Thea was quickly spiraling out of control just as Oliver himself had, and his mom was… far more complicated than Oliver recalled. Both of those facts had become glaring the night his mother and sister had met Felicity. Whereas six years ago, the setbacks would have been more than enough to completely discourage and distract Oliver from his goals, now, they just made him that much more grateful for the unwanted and unfathomable intervention life had handed him and that much more determined. Plus, speaking of Felicity, having her in his life now certainly didn’t hurt matters either.   
  
Because of her, joy was watching Felicity explain and share with him some aspect of pop culture that she loved. That little, bouncy dance she did whenever the Doctor Who theme came on was just… adorable. Bliss was making her food and watching her enjoy it, while cheerfulness was making her laugh and smile. Oliver certainly experienced elation, euphoria, and ecstasy when he and Felicity were together, but it was  _ more  _ than that… perhaps because, for the first time in his life, he was aware of his ability to make someone else feel those things, and that insight only made his feelings that much greater.    
  
But it wasn’t just about what dating Felicity did for him. Oliver’s happiness couldn’t just be dependent upon someone else. And it wasn’t, for his peace now came from the knowledge that he actually liked himself - not in some braggadocious, egotistical way, but it was genuine, because he could recognize his own good traits (he cared about others; he had real, honest, useful skills; and, despite everything he had been through, he could be funny… even if it was in a very unintentional way), and his hope came from the knowledge that someone else, someone as happy and as good as Felicity - Diggle as well - could see him as a happy and good person, too.    
  
“Who. Is. That?”   
  
“What,” Oliver asked instinctively, automatically. Leaving his thoughts behind and refocusing upon the man standing beside him, Oliver once more found himself frustrated that Tommy was there that evening. As far as  _ Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen  _ was concerned, Tommy had already done enough damage. The situation was already tentative enough - what, with his mother’s disapproval of Felicity  _ and  _ his mother and Thea’s knowledge of what Felicity looked like, so he had no idea how the reveal of  _ Megan _ would go over, how it could possibly work out in their favor. Yes, Felicity assured him that she had a plan, and, if anyone was smart and capable enough to… get the two of them out of this mess, it was Oliver’s girlfriend. But adding Tommy to the mix was like tossing gasoline onto the fire, and Felicity’s temper, especially where Oliver’s best friend was concerned, was already quick to spark.    
  
Yet, Tommy insisted. He said he wanted to be there to support his best friend, that someone needed to be there to pick up the fragile, desperate pieces of the girl whose baked goods did not win Oliver’s heart. Plus, both Tommy and Thea were still suspicious of Oliver’s behavior concerning the reality competition, Thea having met Felicity… and then subsequently running to gossip about her with Tommy… doing nothing to allay their doubts. Now that the contest was over, Oliver wasn’t sure what they hoped to discover or accomplish, but neither could be persuaded into not attending. Hopefully, neither pulled any stunts like the last time Tommy attended a tasting, because, plan or no plan, Oliver wasn’t sure Felicity could let either play her for a fool again.    
  
But especially not Tommy.   
  
“I just… it hurts, Ollie. It hurts.  _ So. Good.” _ _   
_ _   
_ If Tommy was really in pain…? “What does?”   
  
As quickly as Oliver’s concern for his best friend materialized, it then evaporated with his response. “The attraction.” Tommy gestured with his flute - Moira Queen already had the champagne flowing freely - into the bustling crowd.    
  
For what was supposed to be a  _ surprise  _ mayoral campaign announcement, there were far too many people in attendance for just the last contest tasting. Oliver didn’t turn to look in the direction where his childhood friend indicated, though, because he was too busy looking for someone else. He was supposed to try the baked goods and  _ pick the winner _ in a mere handful of minutes, but he had yet to lay eyes on Felicity. Or  _ Megan _ … whoever she may be according to Felicity’s plan.    
  
“I’ve never been more scared of a woman in my entire life or, subsequently, more turned on.”   
  
“And I’ve never been more convinced that you’re Malcolm Merlyn’s son, Tommy,” Thea announced, joining their little group after obviously hearing what Oliver’s best friend had just said. Standing up on the tiptoes of her already ridiculously high heels and using both Oliver and Tommy’s shoulders for leverage, she peered out into the gathering. “So, who are we looking at?”   
  
“See the female Casper with the black… well, everything,” Tommy described. And Oliver rolled his eyes, because it was just so Tommy - a childlike innocence morphed and twisted by a perversity born of wealth and privilege that Oliver had once shared. “The one that, forget the quarter, you could bounce the whole damn roll of coins off of her ass?”   
  
If Oliver was dating anyone else besides Felicity Smoak, looking out into the throng of people at Tommy’s description would have made him a bad boyfriend with a straying eye, but Oliver had never seen an ass as nice as Felicity’s before. While it certainly wasn’t why he was with her, that didn’t mean that he couldn’t - and didn’t - appreciate it nonetheless. Worshipping it might have been an option as well. So, he found the woman Tommy was talking about and Thea was searching for, his actions born from curiosity… and more than a slight intuition that Tommy’s mystery girl and Oliver’s girlfriend were one and the same.   
  
And unfortunately - or maybe it was fortunately, because Thea had finally found  _ Megan  _ in the crowd, and she obviously didn’t recognize her (yet), he was right.    
  
Gone was the woman Oliver… knew and, in her place, was a completely different person. But it didn’t look forced or awkward. In fact, Felicity looked extremely comfortable and familiar in her new appearance. Jet black hair, clothes as dark and dramatic as her makeup, and Felicity had even covered up her gorgeous, and warm, and bright blue eyes with sharp, and cold, and steel gray contacts. The transformation wasn’t just physical, though. She walked differently - like each step was both a burden on her and a threat towards others. She looked even smaller, but that might have been the monochromatic, colorless clothing. However, at the same time, she was a force to be reckoned with and just as fierce. And perhaps that’s where Oliver (and not Thea) could still see his girlfriend. Though this woman, this…  _ Megan _ … was a stark contrast to Felicity, both possessed a unique strength of character and identity. No amount of makeup and no disguise could hide that, could hide  _ her _ … at least, not from someone who knew how to look, not from him.    
  
“If the goth look is actually a thing again, and I wasn’t the first one told, there will be  _ hell  _ to pay. Heads. Will. Roll.”   
  
“Way to embrace the spirit of the style, Speedy,” Tommy teased Thea. “I know they say that the clothes make the woman, but you don’t need a black ensemble to inspire fear, dread, or make me think of Satan.”   
  
Oliver could hear the smirk in his sister’s voice, but he didn’t, couldn’t, tear his eyes off of  _ Megan  _ to glance in Thea’s direction. “Then I’d be careful if I were you, Tommy, or you’ll start calling me ‘Daddy’... both emotionally and sexually.”   
  
If there was ever anything that could rip Oliver’s attention away from Felicity, it was his  _ baby _ ,  _ seventeen year old _ sister shamefully  _ flirting  _ with his  _ twenty-seven  _ year old, playboy of a best friend  _ and  _ having said best friend  _ return  _ the flirt. Oliver had noticed the unpleasant and inappropriate shift in their relationship upon first returning home, but this went beyond the two of them feeling comfortable discussing the other’s sex life. However, before he could confront them and shut down… whatever it was that he was witnessing, his mother was there, and she was not nearly concerned enough about Tommy and Thea and far too concerned with the burden that was the reality baking/dating competition Oliver had foolishly agreed to participate in.   
  
“That’s enough, you two,” Moira indulgently chastised. “I expect you to remember why we are really here and represent this family accordingly. That goes for you, too, Tommy.” Before either could respond, his mother was already rounding on Oliver. “As for you, I believe you have a commitment to see through.” Reaching up to unnecessarily straighten his tie… though the tightening of it certainly sent a message, she warned, “do nothing to ruin this for me, Oliver.”   
  
Luckily for the both of them, no one wanted the charade that was  _ Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen  _ over with more than Oliver himself. So, he ignored his mom, and he decided to pick a more important battle - how she treated Felicity - with her at a later date. His concern over Tommy and Thea’s relationship would have to wait as well. He had baked goods to taste,  _ a winner  _ to announce, and a performance to give to the press. Plus, he had a  _ Megan  _ to meet, the one part of this ridiculous evening that Oliver was suddenly very much looking forward to.    
  
As Oliver approached the table where the final two  _ contestants _ ’ baked goods were arranged and displayed, he finally was able to pinpoint that elusive feeling that had been dogging him all night. He was right in that it wasn’t anxiety. It wasn’t even nervousness, because, again, it wasn’t a bad feeling. Just different, new. Rather, it was anticipation, and excitement, and curiosity. No matter how the night turned out - and, for the first time, Oliver wasn’t filled with dread at the prospect of this contest, Felicity would still be his girlfriend, Tommy and Digg still his friends, Thea, his mom, and Walter still his family. Sure, if anyone discovered the ruse he and Felicity were playing, his mother would be furious, but she’d eventually get over it. The entire mess was almost over, and they’d all be getting out of it much better than Oliver had ever believed was possible.    
  
On autopilot, Oliver made his way through the desserts. Distantly and distractedly, he narrated the experience… as was required of him by the cameras and the crowd. He tasted, and he smiled, giving nothing away. The other woman’s baked goods were adequate, Oliver supposed. On top of not actually appreciating sweets, it turned out that there really was something to the idea that food was just better when made with… affection. Upon learning of the final week’s prompt, it had actually been Felicity who designed  _ Megan’s  _ menu. Granted, she had presented her suggestions with many questions of feasibility, but an innate baker or not, she knew food. And, apparently, her liquor, too, and, per Felicity, what said New Year’s Eve better than booze?   
  
So, they made Baileys chocolate souffles with mint creme anglaise… which was a strange dichotomy of decadence and refreshing flavor. The pink champagne macarons were as pretty and exquisite as Felicity herself. Oliver’s favorite dessert to make that week, however, had had the rum creme brulee - not because of how it tasted but, instead, because Felicity’s excitement over getting to use a blowtorch had been hilarious. (And slightly frightening.) She had been enjoying their time baking together so much in fact that Felicity had insisted that they go above and beyond the requirements of the challenge, making four entries - the last being red wine truffles, because she couldn’t  _ not  _ use red wine. She  _ loved  _ red wine.    
  
“Well, who is it?”   
  
“Yeah,” another reporter chimed in from the audience. “Don’t leave us in suspense.”   
  
Briefly, Oliver allowed himself to feel frustration with the media. Of all the things in Starling City that actually deserved reporting, these idiots were at Queen Consolidated instead. Granted, his mom was going to announce her bid for mayor after he was finished, but the newsmen and women didn’t know about that. They thought they were just there for  _ Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen _ , and, what was worse, they were perfectly content with covering the event like it was actual news. It was a part of what made fulfilling his promise to his father so difficult: the people of Starling were so conditioned to do and say what the corrupt wanted of them that there was no one left to speak out against the malfeasance. And it wasn’t just the press either; it was the local government and police department, too. But, again, these were not things that Oliver could change that night.    
  
Smiling… and it was only partially insincere, he glanced out at the crowd and started to speak. “Thank you for coming here tonight. I know this is a busy time of year, but it shows just how much this town cares about me, my family, and this company that you are all here.” While it wasn’t actually how Oliver felt, don’t let it be said that his girlfriend was the only one putting on a performance for the sake of their plan that evening.    
  
“I hope, as we all enjoy the delicious baked goods prepared for tonight’s challenge, that we remember those less fortunate. There are hundreds if not thousands of Starling residents who do not have enough to eat… let alone such delicacies.” This little… addition to the night’s events was a surprise Oliver had been  _ cooking  _ up. His mom wouldn’t like this either, but, as a burgeoning politician, she certainly couldn’t object to a non-glamorous charitable initiative… at least, not in public. “If you’re interested in making a monetary donation to our local food bank… as I will be doing myself later tonight, please seek out John Diggle, my bodyguard and friend, who is manning a table by the doors. And don’t forget that the local shelters and soup kitchens could always use more volunteers to serve the food our money will purchase.   
  
“Furthermore, I’d also like to thank not only the two women standing beside me,” Oliver took a moment to turn towards each of the remaining contestants - one of which was  _ Megan _ \- and smile before once more addressing those gathered before him, “but all of our baking participants. Everyone has been impressive.” There was a brief, obligatory round of applause during which Oliver paused and slightly angled his body towards Felicity. “However, there can only be one winner, and you,  _ Megan Kuttler _ , are it.”   
  
The compulsory clapping didn’t stop, but it also didn’t become any more enthusiastic or sincere either. Rather, it sounded stunned… as did the whispers and murmurs that quickly joined in. Before things could get out of hand (or away from her control), out of the corner of Oliver’s eye, he witnessed his mother reign everyone in with a lift of one meticulously groomed brow. That single, slight movement signaled the waitstaff to start circulating with the champagne once again and made the audience question what else was about to happen, because it was obvious the night was not over… even if they didn’t know why.   
  
Oliver, however,  _ did  _ know why.   
  
Turning towards the runner-up… well, as much as one could be a runner-up when the competition didn’t actually exist, he shook the woman’s hand, thanked her far more sincerely because it wasn’t her fault that he came to the contest with reservations and, in the process of trying to protect everyone involved, ended up falling for Felicity, and wished her both good luck and happy holidays. Once she moved off into the crowd and disappeared, Oliver was finally free to turn to and speak with  _ Megan _ … only for his mother, Tommy, and Thea to join them.    
  
“I must say, Miss Kuttler, you are not what I expected,” Moira started in immediately. It was said with a smile but intended to cut nonetheless.    
  
Before Oliver could intervene, before Felicity could respond, before Thea could offer her opinion, or even before Tommy could open his trap and inevitably make everything worse, good ol’ Bethany Snow was right there, ready to pounce. “Yes, I think all of Starling City would agree with you, Mrs. Queen-Steele.” Rudely shoving a microphone towards Felicity, the blonde reporter demanded to know, “tell us, Megan, what made  _ you  _ want to win a date with Oliver Queen?”   
  
“I didn’t.”   
  
Bethany laughed nervously; everyone else watched on with varying levels of interest. “I don’t think I understand,” the reporter tried to dig deeper. “You don’t want to date Oliver Queen?”   
  
“ _ I _ didn’t enter this competition. Frankly, I find it repulsive, and, thankfully, Oliver Queen just told me that he has a girlfriend, so the date is both innappropriate and not happening.” In just three, pointed sentences, Oliver noticed another difference between his girlfriend and  _ Megan _ :  _ Megan  _ did not mince words. “My mother entered me, and I only stayed in the contest, because, if I won, I’d have the opportunity to address the very prejudice that Moira Queen just showed me.”    
  
Rotating 90 degrees so she could look directly at his mother, Felicity, who apparently felt extremely confident in her plan and disguise… or maybe she just didn’t care anymore about getting caught, said, “my looks, my style, do not determine my skills or my abilities. A woman does not need to wear a string of pearls in order to bake. We are not stereotypes; we are not cliches. We can do, and say, and think, and be anything we want. We are not defined by our gender, our appearance, our genetics, or our socio-economic backgrounds.”   
  
Oliver thought his mother would be furious… and she probably was, but she didn’t show it - not a single flinch, or twitch, or eyelash batted. She didn’t even tense up. Instead, she simply smiled demurely, reacting for Bethany Snow, the other reporters recording the exchange, and the entire assemblage. “Miss Kuttler is absolutely correct, and, while expected or not, I can’t even begin to express to you how pleased I am to have her and her message here tonight when I announce to all of you and all of Starling that I plan to be not only the first woman to run for mayor of this great and wonderful city but also the first woman to serve as mayor of Starling.”   
  
And, just like that, the room erupted, and everyone forgot all about the lesson Felicity was trying to impart upon all of them.    
  
As his mother moved further into the swarm of buzzing press, Thea and Tommy moved that much closer to Oliver and  _ Megan _ , refusing to give them even a moment of peace or a second to be alone. “Well done, Sister Suffragette.” A slow clap accompanied Speedy’s somewhat mocking yet also somewhat respectful… if the two styles could really coexist… words. “That was quite the speech.”   
  
It wasn’t  _ Megan  _ who responded. “It was,” Tommy sighed in agreement. In contentment. In wistfulness. Switching gears rapidly, he sidled up to Oliver. “In the ever immortal words of Sonny,” and the next part he actually sang, squeak included, “could she get me a friend?”   
  
“ _ She  _ doesn’t think that you could handle any of her friends, Mr. Merlyn.”   
  
Tommy elbowed Oliver in the side, never taking his eyes off of  _ Megan  _ and making Oliver frown. “Did you hear that? She called me ‘Mr. Merlyn.’ She knows who I am.” Not waiting for a response, he replied to Felicity, “oh, don’t worry, I don’t want to handle anyone; I want to  _ be handled _ .”   
  
“And how would that be any different than all your nights home alone, Tommy,” Thea asked coquettishly.    
  
Throughout the entire evening, soft instrumental music had been playing in the background. Up until the point when his mom made her announcement, it had been holiday classics and standards, only switching to patriotic marches afterwards. But then, somewhere between his mother explaining that it was her right and privilege to run for office on behalf of Starling City’s citizens and how this wasn’t for her but for the people, hard drums and crunchy guitars replaced trumpets and flutes, and Moira Queen became livid. Although she politely excused herself from the reporters in order to ‘check on the malfunctioning sound system,’ by the time she pivoted around in her stately and classy pumps, her green eyes were kindling with rage.    
  
“You,” she hissed, coming to stand toe to toe with  _ Megan _ . Thea and Tommy stopped mid-bicker, the latter having been waxing on about how tiny, soft, mean, pale hands with black fingernail polish were so much better than, well, anything… but especially his own. “I know you are somehow responsible for this.”   
  
Instead of answering to the accusation right away, Felicity just tilted her head, effectively demonstrating that she was listening to the music, listening to the lyrics. Her actions made Oliver pay closer attention himself. 

_ But they took our ideas to their marketing stores _ _   
_ _ And now I’m spending all my days at girlpower.com _ _   
_ _ Trying to buy back a little piece of me _

And that was just the beginning. As the song grinded on and as the silence stretched on between Felicity and his mother, Oliver, too, knew that his girlfriend was indeed responsible for the protest song being played during his mom’s candidacy announcement. Between Felicity’s feelings towards  _ Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen  _ and how his mom had treated her when they met the week before, he couldn’t blame Felicity for her small rebellion, though he did worry about what it would mean for the women’s already strained relationship if his mother’s suspicions were ever confirmed and/or she learned the truth about  _ Megan’s  _ identity. But those would have to be worries for another day, because he had more pressing fires to put out first.   
  
“Who me?” Felicity emphasized her words with a quick fluttering of her dark lashes before turning her own hostile glare onto Tommy… just as Oliver had earlier feared. “But I’m just a massage therapist who washed out of college  _ and  _ her sorority.” His mother had already stormed off, apparently deciding that shutting off the music was more important than confronting the accused culprit. Felicity, however, was not backing down. Spinning on her booted heel and then advancing towards his friend, she only came to a stop when there were but a few inches separating them. “After all, the only things I’m good at are shopping and caressing down horny pigs. There’s no possible way that I could gain access to the Queen Consolidated mainframe and preprogram the sound system to play “#1 Must Have” by Sleater-Kinney upon my remote command, could there, Mr. Merlyn?”   
  
Tommy’s eyes became wide and rounded. Oliver watched him as he gulped compulsively… like his throat was suddenly dry and he couldn’t swallow properly anymore. Meanwhile, it was Thea who spoke up. “Why do I feel like I’m missing a vital piece of information? What’s going on?”   
  
Felicity looked squarely at Thea, though she didn’t step away from Tommy. “What is happening is that Mr. Merlyn is realizing that, when you treat women like nothing more than inconsequential bitches, they bite back. Hard.” Once more smirking at Oliver’s best friend, Felicity taunted, “and not in the good way, eh, Tommy?”   
  
Tommy started to back away, reaching for and taking Thea with him. “Come on, Speedy. I need to go check my bank balances… and make some charitable donations.”   
  
Oliver could still hear his sister loudly protesting Tommy’s actions and her lack of knowledge regarding the subtext between Tommy and  _ Megan _ , but Oliver tuned them out in favor of  _ finally  _ getting to talk with Felicity. Only… with one, quick glance at her face, he could tell that she had other ideas. “You and me, Mr., have a date with no clothes and my bathroom in one hour.” Her orders were somewhat abrupt and certainly unexpected, but Oliver wasn’t going to argue with her. “You bring… well, all of that.” In a circular manner, she waved her hands in the direction of Oliver’s torso and arms. Before Oliver could enjoy her obvious appreciation of his body, Felicity was continuing, “and I will bring the hair dye,” replacing his smugness with amusement in just a few words.    
  
She was gone, lost to the crowd before he could chuckle… let alone agree to the final part of her plan for the night. Not that he’d ever  _ not  _ want to spend his evening with Felicity (or tell her no), two things which, evidently, his girlfriend already knew about him and their relationship.    
  
Oliver wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

…

 

“When Speedy and I were younger, we would have these candy cane eating contests. No biting, no chewing, but the first one who finished theirs would win.”   
  
With the Queen  _ holiday  _ party bubbling around the manor, Oliver and Felicity had found a secluded corner just for the two of them. To talk. To hide. To disappear. While Oliver had his back to the wall, Felicity faced him, his suit and her dress a whisper away from touching. For Felicity, their position was advantageous, because she could focus on Oliver alone, convincing herself that they were the only two people there; for Oliver, it allowed him to be attuned to both her and the room. It had not taken long for Felicity to realize that, in order for Oliver to feel comfortable within his surroundings, he always needed to maintain a sense of vigilance. Luckily, instead of this awareness making Felicity feel unappreciated or forgotten at times, it actually made her feel safe. Plus, it didn’t hurt matters either that Felicity was proud of the fact that  _ her  _ boyfriend was perhaps the only man in the world capable of multitasking. Oliver could watch her and watch  _ out  _ for her at the same time.    
  
_ That  _ was hot.   
  
As was his devotion to his baby sister… as illustrated by Oliver’s recollections of holidays past… even if Thea Queen, in Felicity’s estimation so far, was totally undeserving of such fondness.    
  
As Felicity smiled up at Oliver, she also reached up to smooth at the lapels of his jacket and tie. They were both already perfectly straight, but she wanted to touch him, so she pretended otherwise. “Remind me later then, when we see your sister, to thank her for that skillful tongue of yours.” The words weren’t even entirely out of her mouth before Felicity was cringing and backtracking. “On second thought, let’s just ignore the last ten seconds and pretend like I never said anything. Otherwise, I don’t think our sex life will ever recover.”   
  
Oliver, grinning, leaned down to whisper in her ear, “that would be my preference.”   
  
Felicity flushed  _ poinsettia _ red (see, not only had Oliver embraced her beliefs, but she was willing to observe some of his own holiday traditions, too) from the roots of her once again blonde hair to the tippy-tip-toes of her stilettos. Clearing her throat and avoiding his gaze at all costs, she asked, “speaking of your family, where exactly are they? Didn’t you say that this is the first time since you… in five years that they hosted a Christmas party? I kind of thought they wouldn’t let you out of their sights tonight.” Which would have made Felicity’s presence there just a bouncy house full of fun. (Cue her melodramatic and ironic eye roll here.) “Plus, given your mom’s mayoral campaign, this just seems like too good of an opportunity to present her ‘all for one and one for all rich, white people’ image to, well, all the rich, white people who will already be voting for her.” And, while Felicity stood by everything she said, hidden behind her snark was also her surprise that Moira and Thea Queen weren’t taking Felicity’s presence in their home as yet another opportunity to ridicule and belittle her relationship with their son and brother, respectively.   
  
“Now that you mention it, I haven’t seen any of them since Thea thought she was sneaking that boy up to her room.”   
  
She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “She wouldn’t.”   
  
Oliver merely quirked a solitary brow in challenge.   
  
“I mean… she totally would. Trust me,” Felicity said with as much conviction as she could muster, “I wouldn’t put  _ anything  _ past your sister. But that guy?” She hitched a thumb over her shoulder in the general direction of where said guy had greeted Oliver and his family after first arriving. “Oliver, he wore a  _ horizontally  _ striped shirt, and presented  _ your  _ mom with a drug store bouquet of flowers.”   
  
“I’m aware,” Oliver gritted out between his teeth. “I met him, too, remember.”   
  
Oh, she recalled. It had taken her hand running under Oliver’s coat and along the small of his dress shirt clad back  _ and  _ a pointed glare at Digg to ignore his boss’ silent orders to get rid of the kid by any means necessary for the teenager to actually still be there for someone to, apparently, sneak him upstairs. And, while Felicity had seen the boy and Thea go upstairs as well, she hadn’t jumped to the same conclusions as Oliver.   
  
“Honestly, I just thought that he was some pompous fool son of one of your mom’s friends, that he had a crush on your sister, and that she tricked him into going upstairs with the promise of more from her… only to end up locked in some closet, alone, and for the duration of the party rather than just seven minutes.”   
  
“I’ve never seen that kid before in my life, and I haven’t seen Thea since she left with him.”   
  
“Oh.” But, still. Despite the evidence Oliver was presenting in favor of his unfavorable case, Felicity just couldn’t see it. “But seriously?!  _ That  _ rice cake?”   
  
“Excuse me?  _ Rice cake?” _   
  
Whirling around on her heels, Felicity came face to face with a perturbed Thea Queen. Before answering the younger woman’s question, Felicity took a moment to backhand her boyfriend’s chest, because so much for him watching out for and protecting her from all threats! She couldn’t dally for long, though, because Thea, arms crossed over her chest and green eyes spitting sullen irritation, was tapping an impatient foot on the carpeted floor. “Uh. Yeah. As in… no matter how much sugar you put into it or on top of it, it’s still bland, stale, and of absolutely no nutritional value.” Felicity shrugged her shoulders… as if her explanation had been obvious. (And it kind of was, right?) “A rice cake.”   
  
“Well, I don’t think you should be one to judge, considering you weren’t even on the guest list.”   
  
“ _ I  _ asked her to be here tonight,” Oliver corrected and chastised his sister. “As  _ my date _ , Speedy.”   
  
“Too bad this was supposed to a way for our family to reconnect, Ollie. We wouldn’t have even had this stupid party if you hadn’t insisted, and, yet, here you are, spending the entire night with  _ her. _ ”   
  
While Felicity tensed next to Oliver, her boyfriend threw his arms up in frustration. “Thea,  _ you _ invited a boy you don’t even like just to get under my skin and piss off mom.”   
  
“Oh, please,” his sister defended. “I didn’t even text him until after  _ she  _ showed up on your arm.”   
  
“You know what,” Felicity started, capturing the dueling siblings’ attention while slowly backing away from them. “I think I’ll just… give you two a few moments. Or an hour. Maybe four. And I’ll go find Raisa  _ and  _ a bottle of wine.”   
  
“No.” If the hard, clipped word wasn’t demand enough, Oliver snagged one of her hands before she could completely slip away and pulled her back towards and into his side. Before Felicity could read him the riot act, Oliver offered an explanation for his caveman behavior - one which, while not allaying her displeasure with his actions, certainly made her sympathize with his motivations. “Because that’s exactly what Thea wants. She thought she’d come over here, be rude to you, and chase you off, but, for once in her life, Thea’s not going to get her way.”   
  
“Yes, because, for the past five and a half years, my life has been a perfect fairy tale. Screw you, Ollie.”   
  
“None of that is Felicity’s fault.” When his sister went to say something else, Oliver gave Felicity’s hand that he was still holding a squeeze and Thea a conciliatory allowance. “You’re right in that this party was my idea, Speedy. I felt like it might help us feel more like a family again. After  _ Bake for a Date with Oliver Queen _ , me moving out, mom’s announcement that she’s running for mayor, and how badly it went when you and mom met Felicity for the first time, I thought we needed a reminder of how much we all mean to one another.  _ And  _ I was hoping that the family tradition of hosting a holiday party for all of our friends and business associates would inspire everyone to give Felicity a second chance. While, yes, we’ve always called this the Queen  _ family  _ Christmas party, look around you, Speedy. This has never been an intimate, private gathering.”   
  
“Yeah, well, it was at least the one time of the year when mom and dad would put aside their issues and actually get along, but mom and Walter are off fighting… about a stupid book of all things, and Walter’s threatening to leave on an open ended trip to Australia… like he can’t possibly get far enough from her,” Thea pouted. While the words ‘from me, from our family’ weren’t said, they were certainly implied by the teenager.   
  
What Felicity liked to consider her healthy curiosity level flared to life at the youngest Queen’s words, but she tamped down on her instinct to investigate, because, really, she was less ‘inquiring minds want to know’ and more of a ‘nosy Nellie.’ Plus, digging into Moira Queen’s marriage wasn’t going to score her any ‘Sour Cream Chocolate Chip Brownie with Chocolate Buttercream Frosting’ points with her boyfriend’s already antagonistic mother. So, Felicity pushed aside her instinct to snoop and, instead, distracted with, “Oliver was just telling me about your candy cane competitions.”   
  
Softening slightly and casting a small smile upon her brother, Thea rhetorically asked, “you remember those?”   
  
Oliver returned the tentative, affectionate expression. “Of course, Speedy.”   
  
That was all it took - Thea’s moment of vulnerability and suddenly obvious affection for her big brother - for Felicity to want to somehow make what was supposed to be a healing night for the Queen family at least a little brighter for her boyfriend and his baby sister. “So, where’s Tommy? Why don’t you guys make this a three horse….” Upon Thea turning a judgemental eye on her, Felicity quickly amended, “I mean… a three  _ pony _ \- a three  _ show pony,  _ a three show  _ My Little Pony _ , Princess Sparkles! - race, huh?”   
  
While Thea didn’t glare in hostility, sneer with derision, or mock Felicity, she did glance at her like she was weird… which, really, kind of felt like a victory of sorts. Like progress. (Hey, Felicity would take it. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and she had absolutely no musical abilities whatsoever.) After a brief, observing pause, Thea answered, “Tommy’s a little preoccupied at the moment. He keeps calling to check on his credit card balances, worried that he’s been hacked again, but then he gets nervous that the hacker will realize that he’s worried, so he ends up making a donation to a women’s rights charity anyway. Lather, rinse, repeat. It’s a vicious cycle - amusing to watch but also sad. Who would’ve thought that it’d ultimately be altruism that would finally break the great Tommy Merlyn?”   
  
For a moment, when Oliver let go of her hand, Felicity feared that he was upset with her, reprimanding her for not yet coming clean to Tommy about her role in his charitable donations and finally putting his best friend’s mind at ease once more. But then Oliver wrapped that hand - and arm - around her waist, pulling her into his side even further, and Felicity was reassured once more. Yes, she eventually needed to have a talk with Tommy, but, for now, Oliver was perfectly alright with his childhood friend’s paranoia… which would hopefully translate into a lesson learned by the time everything was said and done.    
  
“Speaking of altruism,” Oliver segued, bringing Felicity out her thoughts and both her attention and Thea’s back towards him. “There’s a project I’ve been meaning to speak with you about, Speedy. I’d like your help with something. We can probably even set it up as an internship for course credits come fall.”   
  
“I’m all for helping you with something, Ollie, because we all know you need my help desperately and on so many levels, but ‘an internship for course credits come fall’ implies that you think I’m going to be a college student in September, and you couldn’t be more wrong about that.”   
  
Considering the fact that Thea wasn’t dismissing Felicity’s relationship with Oliver for once, Felicity decided that she, too, would give the younger woman the benefit of the doubt. “Oh, do you plan on taking a gap year to travel?”   
  
“If by gap year you mean for the rest of my life, then, yeah, sure, I guess,” Thea responded flippantly.    
  
Okay, Felicity attempting to give Thea the benefit of the doubt? Yeah, that was over. Aghast, she exclaimed, “but you have to go to college; you need a degree!”   
  
“Ollie doesn’t have a degree,” Thea argued. “In fact, he went to and dropped out of four colleges, and the only thing he earned during that time was a reputation. Now, he’s a vice president of QC and has full access to his trust fund. If he can do that much without a degree, trust me, I’ll be fine.”   
  
“But… but,” Felicity sputtered, trying to align all of her objections and select the most important one. “But those experiences aren’t connected! Just because your brother got a D in tenth grade algebra, that doesn’t mean you should skate through life without knowing that every non-constant single-variable polynomial with complex coefficients has at least one complex root!”   
  
“Wow. You guys have been dating, what? Three weeks? And you’ve already gotten into the minutiae of sharing high school report cards?”   
  
Felicity looked between Thea’s amused face and Oliver’s.... Well, to be blunt, her boyfriend was flashing her some serious heart eyes. Despite the adorableness of his utterly smitten expression, Felicity couldn’t help but feel frustration, because, “that’s not my point!” Focusing in on the teenager, she told her, “you don’t want to follow in your brother’s footsteps, Thea. While, yes, he eventually made it to a healthy and successful place, it was the hardest of hard knock lives there for a while. Unless you plan on eating seaweed and chocolate covered beetles - hold the chocolate - for five years, too, then you might want to reconsider attending college.”   
  
Smirking, Thea told her brother, “she’s very dramatic, Ollie.”   
  
“Hello!,” Felicity yelled, waving one of her hands in front of Thea’s face and the other before her boyfriend’s. “ _ She’s _ right here,  _ and she’s  _ making some  _ very  _ valid points.”   
  
Except, apparently, Oliver didn’t think they were that valid, because the next thing he said was, “so, you’re not going to college?”   
  
“Not even if mom threatens to deny me access to my trust fund and cut me off financially.”   
  
“Fine,” Oliver stated.   
  
“Uh, not fine,” Felicity argued, looking over at him like he had lost his mind… or had grown a second, brainless head… of the ‘head, shoulders, knees and toes’ variety, not of the  _ other  _ variety… which, in Oliver’s case, really put a whole new spin on the idea of a ‘two headed monster.’ And, banana shenanigans!, she should’ve asked for a lobotomy for Hanukkah.   
  
“If you’re not going to college, then, instead of a project that I want your help on, it can just be your solo project that I help you with… when needed. I’ll listen to your ideas, and I’ll offer you advice, but you will do all the work on your own.”   
  
“I really don’t see how you have any say in this, Ollie, but I’ll admit that I’m curious about what you have in mind, so I’ll bite. What is it exactly that you want me to do,” Thea inquired.    
  
And, yeah, for the first time since she met her boyfriend’s sister, Felicity was actually in agreement with the younger woman, because what could be important enough that Oliver would so easily accept his sister not wanting and refusing to go to college?   
  
“If Dad were here and he could see how badly things have gotten in The Glades, partly because of selfish decisions he made, I think he’d regret shutting down the Queen Steel Factory. So, it’s only right that, as his children, we try to help. QC still owns the building, and, while it’ll never be a steel mill again, it can be a useful and much needed place of employment for the people of The Glades once more.”   
  
“And you want  _ me _ to do this,” Thea questioned, part in doubt and part in hope. “You really think that I  _ can  _ do this?”   
  
“I don’t think,” Oliver assured his sister. “I  _ know _ .” At her still tentative expression, he added, “and, like I said, I’ll help you, Speedy.”   
  
“Me, too,” Felicity piped up, her earlier reservations already forgotten. While she kind of felt bad for her lack of faith in her boyfriend, Felicity silently promised to make it up to him later. Privately. “Anything computer or electrical engineering related, I’m your girl.” Upon second thought... “I mean, not your girl…  _ girl _ . Because I’m Oliver’s girl…  _ girl _ . But your girl.” Turning towards Oliver, she asked, “she knows what I mean, right?”   
  
“ _ She’s _ picking up what you’re putting down,  _ Megan.” _   
  
Felicity gasped, and Oliver demanded, “how  _ the hell  _ did you figure that out?”   
  
“Puh-lease, Ollie. I told you my life’s motto.”   
  
While Felicity was still waiting for Miss Marple to explicate her solving of the  _ Megan  _ mystery, Oliver actually played along with his sister’s game. “Uh… kicking ass and taking names?”   
  
“Like I would dare risk my shoes on physical violence when snark will suffice.” Sidling up to Felicity’s free side and hip-checking her, Thea flashed a toothy, smug grin. “Panty lines don’t lie… and neither does that ass. It’s as distinctive as a fingerprint.”   
  
Oliver didn’t deny it. Sure, Felicity herself was shocked speechless, but, a five year sabbatical or not, Oliver should have been conditioned to handle Thea and her sass. But all he did was chuckle at his baby sister. He chuckled, and then he bussed a kiss along Felicity’s right temple. “I think she’s got you there, hon.” Considering it was his hand which dropped down to cup, squeeze, and then hold her rounded bottom as those words left his mouth, Felicity would actually argue that it was Oliver who had her  _ there _ .    
  
Felicity was still adjusting to her rear end serving as the real end to their secret (Oh, the whiplash!) when a wicked gleam entered Thea’s eyes. “And what if I want to turn the old factory into a reality TV studio? After all, your foray into television went  _ so _ well, big brother.”   
  
“Just as long as you’re the star of the series, Thea, and not me, go wild.”   
  
As Thea ran off to find Tommy and tell him the news, Felicity had a feeling that Oliver’s last words to his baby sister, ‘go wild,’ would come back to bite them all in their baked goods fattened tuchuses.    
  
And, quite frankly, her derriere could not handle any distinguishing marks. Apparently, it was distinctive and memorable enough already. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Banner by the amazing @victori96572376. Thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> This weekend alone, I binged the first two seasons of The Holiday Baking Championship, and don't even get me started on the wonder that is The Great British Baking Show. Plus, I'm a baker myself. So, I decided to marry this obsession with Olicity for this prompt. However, my appetite for this verse was not satisfied with this one piece, so I think I'm going to continue it - break it down challenge by challenge (right along with S3 of The Holiday Baking Championship) this holiday season. Unfortunately, there's only one flash fic prompt remaining, and it doesn't really fit this story. So, I can either take prompts from the show's challenges or, perhaps, readers will want to submit prompts. I'll see what the response is. Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it. Come find me on tumbler (oycharlynnrose - I'm new), twitter (oy_CharlynnRose), Pinterest (oycharlynnrose), and Instagram (oy_charlynnrose) if you ever want to talk recipes and/or fangirl over Mary Berry (amongst other things). 
> 
> Thanks,  
> ~Charlynn~


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